


Dreamwalker

by Morgan Briarwood (morgan32)



Series: Dreamwalker [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Movie Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-12
Updated: 2009-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan%20Briarwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Samuel Grey is a powerful psychic and therapist at the Woodward Institute, a hospital for the criminally insane. He has a wife, a home and a promising career, and he's almost forgotten that he used to be Sammy Winchester. He believes his father and brother abandoned him when they found out he was a psychic. But when Dean is suspected of his father's murder, Sam discovers blood is thicker than water after all. (Remix of the movie <i>Gothika</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

#### Prologue: From the journal of Dr Samuel Grey

**4 May 2013**

_We buried Rachel today._

_Only five years old, her tiny coffin drowned in flowers. It was a closed casket, because I couldn't bear for everyone to see how broken she was when they pulled her from the river. Peter read from the Bible: the story of Jesus healing the daughter of Jarius, and when he said, "The child has not died, but is asleep" I couldn't keep the tears from my eyes._

_Jess still won't talk about it. I'm worried about her, but she ate a full meal today. I think that's progress._

_Why? Why Rachel? Why this way? The questions are endless and there are no answers, none that make sense._

_Yet I can't help wondering, might it be better this way? At least this way we had a body to bury and there's a grave to visit._

_For the first time, I think I understand something of what my Dad went through when they took me away from him. I was twelve when they discovered my gift (my curse, my power – call it what you will). I remember he was so angry it frightened me. I remember screaming for Dean, but they wouldn't let me see him. I remember Dad told me he would fight the ruling and get me back. But I never saw Dean or Dad again._

_I couldn't bear to lose Rachel like that, knowing what she would go through in The Project. I know we would have lost her in a few years. My daughter had my tainted blood; even at five she showed signs of having inherited more from me than just my eyes and smile._

_A few more years to love our darling girl…but surely this is better than never knowing her fate, never knowing if she passed the tests or failed, as so many do, and died._

_This way, I know. I have that._

_I wonder what became of Dean and my Dad. Strange, I haven't thought of them for years. I hope Dad found some peace. I hope Dean is happy. I'll never know. I'm not one of them any more. They told me at the Centre that my Dad was a Hunter and I know what hunters think of my kind; he'd probably shoot me on sight if we met now. I suppose Dean is the same, if he's still alive._

_Morbid thoughts, tonight._

_I love you, Rachel._


	2. Chapter 2

#### The Woodward Institute, Washington  
August 2017

In her dreams, Chloe was beautiful. She danced through the room, her long, black hair bouncing around her pixie-like face. The room had yellow sunflowers on the wallpaper. She heard music, like pretty, tinkling bells. She laughed out loud.

Sam hated this happy place Chloe created for herself, because he knew what was going to happen. It was the same every time.

In life Chloe was twenty six years old but her dream-self was a child. She hugged a teddy-bear as she danced to the window and pressed her nose against the glass. Outside, the sky was blue with cotton-candy clouds and spring flowers everywhere.

Chloe screamed.

Sam was expecting it, but even so the sound made him flinch and he almost lost his place in her dream. He saw her fall to the ground, struggling against some assailant that neither he, nor Chloe could see. This was the moment. Sam shut out the sight of Chloe's struggles and the sound of her childish screams. He painstakingly built up the image of the man he knew had attacked her. Only when the image was living in his mind did he open himself up to the girl's terror. He gave the image to her – gently, an offering, not an imposition – praying that this time she would acknowledge it.

Chloe rejected the image again. She screamed, her hands scratching at invisible arms. She begged and she cried.

Sam withdrew from the dream. He had tried to help her before; it never worked. Every attempt he'd made to save her from her ghostly attacker only made things worse. So now he no longer interfered in her nightmare. He simply offered her the truth she feared to face, every night. She wouldn't accept it.

***

Sam returned to himself and found tears in his eyes. Chloe was his most challenging patient. It was hard to enter her self-created hell night after night. She had been so young when her father started abusing her, it was impossible for Sam to be unaffected by it. Most of his patients, he helped because that was his job. Chloe he _wanted_ to help, but she wouldn't let him.

Sam reached for the water on his nightstand and drank. Chloe's terror clung to him like some thick, sticky liquid. Slowly, he shook off the last remnants of the dream. He looked at the clock beside his bed: it was a few minutes short of 7.00am. Sam took a deep breath and touched the intercom on the nightstand.

"Security."

"It's Doctor Grey. Is my wife in yet?"

There was the familiar short silence. Most of the security guards didn't like talking to Sam. Hell, most of the staff were wary of him. He was used to it.

Finally, the guard answered, "She signed in ten minutes ago, Doctor. Shall I connect you?"

"Thanks, but no. I'll go down myself."

"Very good, Doctor."

Sam cut the intercom. Then he showered, shaved and headed down to the office block.

Jessica was behind her desk, munching on an apple while she checked the overnight reports on her computer. Sam paused in the doorway, just watching her for a moment. He never ceased to be amazed that someone so lovely, so intelligent, had chosen _him_ as a husband. Her blonde curls cascaded over her shoulders, framing her lovely face. She wore a smart business suit in the shade of blue that made her eyes shine.

Jessica looked up. "Are you coming in? Or are you stuck there?"

"I'm not stuck. Just admiring the view." Sam moved into the room and let the door swing closed behind him. He walked around her desk to claim a kiss. She tasted of apples.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" Jess frowned. When Sam didn't answer at once she stroked his cheek. "Oh. You dreamed with Chloe again, didn't you?"

Sam nodded. Jess might have checked his schedule, but he knew she hadn't. Jess just knew him that well. He kissed her again.

Jess leaned back in her leather chair. She gestured to another chair. Sam took the hint and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair wearily. He was dying for a coffee, but that would be a bad idea. What he needed now wasn't a stimulant, it was sleep. Peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Jess looked worried. "Sam, I admire that you refuse to give up on Chloe, but…I think it's time to consider that she might be beyond help."

"She might be," Sam admitted. "I can't give up, Jess." He sighed. "Some of the people in this place deserve the hells they create for themselves. Chloe was horribly abused and she killed her father so he wouldn't put her little sister through the same thing. And he still rapes her every night in her dreams. I'm going to keep trying until she can sleep without fear."

"And if she never can?"

"I keep trying until she stops breathing." What Sam couldn't tell Jess was how much Chloe's dream-self resembled their long-dead daughter. Perhaps that was why he couldn't give up on the hope of healing her. It was certainly why it hurt him so much to keep trying. Chloe was hurting. She lived in terror of shadows and night, and no matter how hard Sam tried, he couldn't help her. Sam pioneered the dream therapy program and he had helped hundreds of patients over the years. Chloe's trauma was precisely the kind of problem best suited to Sam's talent; she'd responded to none of the more conventional attempts to reach her. But Sam couldn't reach her, either. At first he had thought they were making progress: she'd begun to talk, to interact with others. But the progress stopped there. All Sam's years of study, all of his experience was useless with her.

"Jess," he said suddenly, "is it possible her case history is wrong?"

"Wrong, how?" Jess touched the screen of her computer, calling up Chloe's case notes. "She was fourteen when she killed her father. According to her own statement he'd been abusing her for several years."

"Since she was five or six," Sam said. "But she sees a ghost, or the Devil. She consistently rejects the reality."

"Never underestimate the human capacity for denial, Sam."

"Yes, I know. I know. But this is different, somehow. I'm just wondering…what if it wasn't her father? I mean, is that possible?"

Jess shook her head. "Anything is possible but in this case, no, Sam. I don't think so." She pushed away from her desk and came toward him. "I'll set up a session with her in a few days time. You can sit in, and we'll see if she's willing to explore it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Now, I think you should head home. You look tired, Sam."

He caught her hand in his and pulled her into his lap. "Promise you're not working late tonight."

She laughed. "I'll do my best."

***

Distant thunder rumbled across the landscape as Sam finished typing his night report. He saved the file and turned off the computer. That was his last duty; he could go home now. He glanced out of his office window and saw the storm clouds gathering.

He called at Jess's office again to let her know he was leaving, and then headed out. There was always some crisis to keep her late at the hospital but he hoped today she'd keep her word and be home on time. He was looking forward to a relaxing evening, just the two of them. He _had_ to work nights; it was the nature of his peculiar gift, but it was hell on their sex life. He treasured the nights he got to sleep with his wife beside him.

As he crossed the parking lot to his car, the rain began. Just a few drops at first, but before he reached his Mustang the rain was heavy enough to soak through his supposedly waterproof coat. He had no umbrella so he ran the last distance to the car.

The rain pounding on the car roof was loud enough to be hail. He started the car, glancing up at the sky. It looked like the storm was just getting started.

***

_Highway To Hell_ blasted out of the in-car stereo, loud enough for the beat to vibrate the wheel and shiver across Dean's skin. His fingers tapped the wheel in time to the music. It had to be loud or he'd never hear it over all this damned rain.

The visibility was down to just a few feet by the time he turned onto the road to Willow Creek. He slowed the Impala; navigating these country roads in this weather was going to be tough. It was just as well he slowed down, because a few minutes down the road Dean ran into a police roadblock.

He swore under his breath, turned off the music and rolled down the window, putting on his best _I'm-harmless_ smile. "Is there a problem, officer?" he shouted over the driving rain.

The cop wore a yellow raincoat which was keeping off the worst of the weather, but his glasses were steamed up and he peered over them at Dean, shining a torch into his face for a second. "You headed to Willow Creek?" he yelled.

_Where the hell else does this road lead?_ "Yes, sir," Dean answered. Rain was coming in through the Impala's window. A lot of rain.

"You're gonna have to take a different route. There's a sinkhole up ahead; the whole road is blocked."

"Shit," Dean muttered. He was already late. "Which way can I go?"

The cop straightened and pointed. "About a mile further down there's a side road that'll take you over the bridge. You'll come into Willow Creek from the west."

Dean nodded. He knew the road and had driven that way to find the place where Ellie died, but the bridge was damned narrow. He hadn't wanted to take the Impala that way. No choice, though. "Okay. Thanks, officer." He rolled the window back up and started to turn the car around. As he drove away from the roadblock, he pulled out his cell phone.

"Dad, it's me. I'm on my way home but I just got detoured by the cops, so I'm gonna be a while longer."

There was an uncharacteristic silence before John answered. "Hurry, Dean. I need you here."

Dean frowned. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Just some new information.

"Did you figure out what Ellie was huntin'?"

 "I'm not sure yet. I'll fill you in when you get here, son. What's your ETA?"

"Um…in this rain I'm not sure. An hour, maybe. Holy crap!" Dean swerved to avoid the figure that suddenly appeared in the road. He slammed on the brakes, dropping his phone. The tyres screeched on the wet road and the Impala spun out of control for a moment. Dean wrenched the wheel around, fighting for control of the car. She came to a stop in the ditch at the side of the road.

Dean leapt out of the car and scrambled back up to the road. Was that a _kid_? Did he hit someone? Shielding his eyes against the rain he saw the figure of a little girl still standing in the middle of the road. She wore a long white nightgown and was soaked to the skin, huddled against the cold, the thin fabric clinging to her thin frame. She was not moving.

Dean breathed a little easier: he hadn't hit her, at least but she obviously needed help. Cautiously, he moved toward her. "Hey. Are you okay?"

The girl didn't answer. She didn't even look his way. She looked about five. As he reached her, Dean saw cuts and fresh bruises covering her face and her bare shoulders. Something horrible had happened to her.

He slipped off his leather coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, kneeling in the road beside her. "It's okay. You're okay," he said soothingly. "I'm going to get you to a hospital, alright?" he tried to lead her away, but she resisted.

Dean didn't push it; the kid was obviously traumatised. "What's your name, honey?" he tried.

She reached up with both hands and his coat fell from her back. She touched his face, her tiny hands cupping his cheeks.

Her hands burst into flames.

Dean jerked back, more in surprise than in pain. The little girl wailed and fire flared around her, lighting up the road for a few seconds. _Shit!_ A ghost. She grabbed him again and the cold fire seemed to spread, creeping along his arm, his shoulder, his chest. It engulfed him completely and Dean knew no more.

***

_A hot spray of blood in his face, blinding him for a moment._

_The weight of a weapon in his hand, solid and familiar._

_A girl in flames, screaming. Fire!_

Dean woke with adrenaline flooding his veins. His body jerked upward into a sitting position, out of his control. Automatically, he reached for the knife beneath his pillow but it wasn't there. There wasn't even a pillow. His hand encountered a wall that felt like a thick layer of paint over bare brick. This wasn't his bedroom. The place was completely unfamiliar.

Every muscle in his body ached. He felt like he'd gone twenty rounds in the ring, and come off worst in every round. Dean ran his hands over his face, and his arms. He found no injuries, just this bone-deep ache.

His breathing sounded harsh in the dark silence, but there didn't seem to be any immediate threat. Dean waited for the adrenaline rush to fade, taking stock of where he was. He was lying on something too hard to be a bed, but too soft to be the floor. He slid his hand over the surface at his side. It felt like cotton over some sort of padding. There was a wall behind him and on his right. He cautiously swung his legs around to his left, feeling for the ground. He found it: smooth and cool linoleum beneath his bare toes.

Dean glimpsed a light a distance away. He rose to his feet, feeling a little shaky. He grabbed onto the wall for support and trailed his hand along the painted surface as he moved, slowly, forward.

His eyes should be adjusting to the light more quickly than this. He blinked a few times, and that seemed to help. He took another step forward and _ouch! _stubbed his toe on something hard and solid. Automatically, he bent to see what it was and banged his forehead, too.

Dean felt ahead of him with one hand. Solid, smooth…fuck, it was glass. But not a window: the glass went all the way to the ground.

Then he understood.

This was a cell. He was in a prison cell.

_What the hell?_

Dean did a lot of things that could get a man arrested, but wouldn't he remember something like that?

He remembered driving in the rainstorm… There was nothing after that. Just the memory of _Highway To Hell_ competing with the thunder of rain on the Impala's roof.

How did he get here?

The light he could see was a small square pane in a door some distance away. So there was probably someone around.

Dean took a deep breath, closed his hand into a fist and pounded on the glass. "Hey! Is anyone out there? Answer me!" He yelled at the top of his voice and kept shouting, variations of the same thing.

After a moment, lights came on. It was just a low-level illumination in the corridor but after the almost perfect darkness it was more than enough for Dean. He waited. The door at the end of the corridor opened. Two people came through the door: men wearing what looked like a hospital staff uniform: grey pants and white lab-coats. They approached Dean's cell, not hurrying.

Dean let himself relax – a little. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Where am I? What am I doing here?" He didn't know if it was a good idea to let them know he couldn't remember, but he needed information, and fast. Direct seemed the best way.

One of them called out, "Fifteen, open up!" and Dean realised this might be the only chance he had to escape. He heard the lock click open and the man who had spoken reached forward to open it.

Dean darted forward, pushing at the glass as hard as he could. A panel of the glass swung open, knocking the first man down, and Dean was through. The first man grabbed for him. Dean wrenched out of his grasp, but felt the sharp prick of a needle in his arm.

He grasped the man's hand and forced it away from him. He saw the empty hypodermic. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded, but already his vision was clouding.

The first man caught Dean's arm and twisted it behind him, wrenching up and sending pain through Dean's arm and shoulder. It was a move Dean should have been able to counter easily, but his body refused to cooperate. Dean fell to his knees; his legs felt like wet spaghetti. "What are you doin'?" he mumbled, before everything went black.

***

When Dean woke for the second time, it was day. Or, rather, there was enough light that it felt like day.

Dean tried to get up, and found he could not. There were heavy restraints on his wrists and ankles, each attached to the sleeping platform with a short length of thick elastic. It allowed him to move, a little, but not enough to sit up or stand.

There was also someone with him in the cell.

Dean studied the man suspiciously. He looked about thirty, maybe a little older – roughly around Dean's own age. He had dark hair swept neatly back from his face. He was clean shaven. He wore a charcoal grey suit with an open-necked shirt. Smart but casual. A professional man: lawyer? Doctor, maybe?

The man leaned forward, studying Dean as intently as Dean studied him. "Dean, do you recognise me?"

It was an odd question. "Should I?" Dean returned.

"Perhaps not. Can you tell me what you do remember?"

Dean scowled. "Dude, I'm not tellin' you a damned thing until I get some answers."

The man nodded. "Alright."

"Where am I? Who the fuck are you and why am I tied up?"

"This is the Woodward Institute. We're an intermediate security hospital, primarily for patients with a history of violence. I'm Doctor Samuel Grey. When you were admitted here three days ago you were having violent seizures. We used heavy sedatives and restraints to keep you from hurting yourself. When you came out of it, we ran the usual tests, CAT scan, drug screening. There were no drugs in your system except the sedatives we put there. Your scans showed some left-brain abnormalities but that's most likely a result of the seizures, not the cause of them. You were in a state of withdrawal, almost catatonic, until last night, when I understand you became violent and had to be sedated again. Which brings us to this morning."

It was as if he was talking about a stranger. Dean remembered none of it (except the bit about last night, and if they thought _that_ was violent they really didn't know him). Nor did it make any sense. If he'd been having seizures – not that he believed that for a second – he should be in a hospital. Dean knew about the Woodward Institute. It wasn't a hospital. It was an asylum. There was no reason for him to be here.

"Why am I here? If I was sick, why not a real hospital?"

The doctor hesitated. "As I understand it, you were in police custody when you became ill. It's standard practice for the cops to call us, rather than the county hospital. Security reasons."

Dean tugged at the restraint on his wrist. "So…am I free to leave?" Police custody meant he'd been arrested, but he didn't remember that. He remembered talking to a cop in the storm. That's right, there was a detour and they told him to take a different road into Willow Creek. And then… _Remember, damn it!_

"I'm afraid not. Dean, I've answered your questions. It's important you answer mine. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

Dean ignored the question. "Why did you ask if I recognised you? Do I know you?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be struggling to keep his expression neutral. "I…I think that, if you don't remember, we should table that question for the time being. I'm a doctor, and I'm here to help you."

"Dude, quit treatin' me like I'm gonna break. I'm okay and I want to know what the fuck is goin' on! And get these things off me!"

Dean expected a refusal, but to his surprise the doctor nodded. "Alright." He stood and walked to the bed. He bent over to undo the restraints at Dean's ankles.

"Your name is Dean Winchester," he said as he worked. "You were born in Lawrence, Kansas, son of John and Mary Winchester. Is that right?"

"You coulda got all that by running my fingerprints," Dean pointed out.

The doctor smiled. "I did. I wanted to know whether _you_ remembered it." He reached across Dean's body to his wrist and opened the buckle, then freed Dean's other wrist before returning to his chair.

Dean sat up with relief. "Thanks," he said grudgingly.

"You're welcome. Dean…my name is Sam Grey _now_, but it's not the name I was born with. My original name was Winchester. Sam Winchester."

Dean stared at him. It was impossible. Sammy was dead.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the doctor's face. He saw nothing of his baby brother in that face. But then, it had been so long, and all the photos of Sammy were lost years ago. He couldn't be sure. He gazed into the doctor's eyes, and thought, _Maybe_. But he shook his head.

"You ain't Sammy. Sammy died fifteen years ago."

The doctor – Sammy, if it was really him – shook his head. "They don't kill all psychics, Dean. Just the dangerous ones."

Dean shook his head in denial. He was having trouble with his memory, but only with the recent memories. He remembered his life. He remembered his little brother, and he could never forget the day he and his dad were told Sammy was gone. Dean blamed himself. He should have taken Sammy from the school the second he saw the Psi Project testers were there. Dean swallowed.

"The Psi Project took Sammy from us, but we never gave up. Dad and me…we went back every few months, as often as they'd let us, but there was always some excuse. We weren't allowed to see him." The Psi Project had complete control over the children in its care. If the Project leaders said the kid's family couldn't visit, that was it. No court would intervene, because the purpose of the Project was control. Psychic children were dangerous. You wouldn't give a kid a loaded gun, or so the theory went, so kids who could kill with a mere thought were too dangerous to be allowed freedom. The Psi Project taught those kids control. It raised them to be useful citizens instead of dangerous renegades.

It was a good theory. The dark side of The Psi Project was what happened to the children who couldn't be controlled. It happened. Dean knew better than most that some psychics had powers that simply couldn't be used for anything but death; and many were so powerful it was impossible to refrain from using their power. In other words, some of those children were human time-bombs, killers by nature. One purpose of The Psi Project – its primary purpose, when it was first established – was to identify and cull the dangerous from the controllable. The ones deemed too dangerous were put down – killed – to protect the public.

That was what happened to Sammy.

"They told us Sammy killed someone," Dean said aloud. "He was on the death-list, and they still wouldn't let us see him. Sammy is dead." He turned angry eyes to the doctor. "So you ain't him. No fucking way."

The doctor's face was stricken. "I never knew… I…I thought…" He stood, abruptly, turning away from Dean. "Son of a bitch!"

It was a good act. Dean stayed quiet, waiting for the punchline.

Finally, the doctor turned back to him. "Dean, I _was_ deathlisted when I was fifteen. Some kid I didn't know committed suicide, and I got the blame because she'd been having nightmares before it happened."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "No one gets a reprieve once they're deathlisted by The Project."

Sam nodded. "It's rare." He smiled suddenly. "One thing I learned from Dad was never give up. If you're still breathing, if your heart's still beating, there's hope. I fought for a chance to prove myself, and even after I won, I had to keep proving myself over and over." He moved to sit beside Dean on the sleeping platform. "Dean, you're in real trouble here, don't you realise that? Man, I remember you teaching me to tie my shoes. I remember you staying awake with me all night to fight the monster in my closet. You always took care of me. I want to help you now. I _can_ help, but you've got to trust me. Please."

He seemed sincere. But he'd admitted to being a psychic. That meant that he could be pulling all this out of Dean's mind. Dean _wanted_ to believe him. He wanted to believe his little brother could be alive. That was his weakness. He could not afford to give in to it.

Dean met the doctor's eyes. "Even if I believed that you're Sammy, the only person I trust is my dad. Does he know I'm here?"

A look Dean couldn't read passed across the doctor's face.

"Well, does he? 'Cause if Dad knows where I am, I ain't gonna need your help, dude. And if he doesn't know, the only help I need is freaking phone call."

Sam's eyes widened. "You really don't remember anything, do you? Oh, my god."

"I thought you were a psychic."

"Yes, but I'm not a telepath." He took a deep breath. "Dean, Dad's not coming for you."

Dean stared at this man who claimed to be his long-lost brother and knew he'd finally caught him in a lie. The man was a damned good liar, though. Dean could find no hint of it in his body language or his eyes. "What are you talking about? Of course Dad'll come for me!"

Sam swallowed hard. He looked very uncomfortable. "Dean…Dad's dead. All the evidence says _you_ killed him."

***

_Dad's dead._ Sam watched Dean's expression carefully as he said it, keeping his tone as even as he could. _You killed him._

Dean stared at him. Shock chased disbelief across his face. Suddenly, Dean lunged for Sam. Sam had half-expected it but he reacted too slowly, scrambling back away from Dean. Dean's hands closed around his throat. Sam's back slammed into the wall, driving the breath from his body.

Dean's eyes were cold and controlled. His thumbs pressed down on Sam's windpipe, slowly and deliberately cutting off his air. "You're a fucking _liar_!" he spat into Sam's face.

It wasn't the first time a patient had attacked Sam. He had a silent alarm implanted in the heel of his left hand: a sub-dermal implant couldn't be taken from him in a crisis. Sam clenched his fist to activate the alarm but even as he did he knew there wasn't enough time. He looked into Dean's eyes, pleading. _Don't do this, Dean. Don't make me hurt you._ Dean pressed harder, and Sam saw death in his eyes.

Sam felt the power punch out of him, tearing Dean's hands from his neck and blowing him away. It wasn't like using muscle; this was physically effortless, but it sent a spear of pain through his head, and Sam knew he'd pay for this later. Dean's body hit the opposite wall, a foot above the ground. He didn't fall; he stayed there, suspended.

Sam doubled over, coughing, trying to breathe. His telekinetic ability had always been involuntary. Involuntary meant no control, which in turn meant he shouldn't use it. Ever. Self defence would be no excuse if he killed someone, and he could. He sucked air into his lungs and looked up at Dean. He wasn't hurt. Thank god he wasn't hurt!

But the look in  Dean's eyes would stay with Sam forever. Dean was afraid of him.

Sam staggered to the cell door as the orderlies arrived to answer his alarm. One carried a hypodermic and Sam didn't need to ask what it contained. He held up a hand in a "stop" gesture as the door swung open.

"It's okay. That's not necessary."

Behind him, he heard Dean fall to the ground. Sam stepped out of the cell and turned around to look at Dean as it swung closed.

Dean stalked toward the glass. "So that's what you are," he announced, in a voice that clearly said _monster_.

Sam met his brother's eyes through the glass. "What I am is a dreamwalker, Dean. I have some other minor abilities, premonitions, telekinesis, but they're not voluntary. _You_ attacked _me_, and my power responded. I apologise."

"Dreamwalker," Dean repeated, his lip curling with contempt.

It was a familiar reaction. Sam had hoped for better from his brother, but he knew that had been optimistic at best. So he simply nodded. "Yes. I meant what I said, Dean. I can help you."

"You think I'm gonna let you fuck with my head after this?"

Sam schooled his expression to neutrality. "Fine. Whatever. If you change your mind, ask for me. I'll come." He walked away before Dean could get the last word.

***

Jessica was waiting for Sam in the nurses' office at the end of the cell block. Sam rubbed at his neck; he was going to be bruised, but he smiled for Jess.

"Ready for breakfast?" she suggested brightly.

That was code for _Let's talk in private_. "Definitely," Sam answered. He took her hand as he reached her, but he spoke not to Jess, but to the ward supervisor. "No more sedatives for Winchester unless he's going to hurt himself again. Give him an hour or so to calm down, then see if you can get him to clean up. But make sure he's supervised; he's likely to be a flight risk."

The supervisor wrote down the instructions as he spoke. "Understood, doctor."

"Thanks. One more thing. If he asks for me, I want you to page me at once, day or night."

She nodded, making a note. "No problem."

"Thanks," he said again. Jessica squeezed his hand; a silent question. He smiled her way, promising an answer when they were in private.

Breakfast was fresh orange juice, coffee and bagels. They ate together in Jessica's office. She had a large leather couch in one corner; she kicked off her high heels and relaxed with her feet in Sam's lap as they ate.

Sam gave Jess a summary of his meeting with Dean. "He doesn't remember the murder, Jess. He didn't remember it at all."

Jess set her coffee down. "The seizures could have caused a loss of memory, but it's just as likely he's trying to set up an insanity defence. Sam, I read the file on this man. He's got a criminal record a mile long."

"I know he has," Sam admitted, "but this murder makes no sense. He's a paranormal-hunter, Jess, they both were. They've been working together for years. Where's the motive? Dean was devastated when I told him his father is dead. He wasn't faking it."

Jess reached up to touch his shoulder. "Are you ready to explain all this to me?"

Sam gave her his best blank face. "Explain what?"

Of course, it didn't work.

"Oh, come on, Sam! You dragged me out of bed before dawn, telling me we're needed at the Institute. When we get here there's this stranger in ICU and cops everywhere, and somehow you knew everything about him and the man he's killed. Sam, you even described his car!"

Sam fought not to smile. His father's Chevy was the closest thing to a home he'd known, before the Psi Project Centre. When he'd described the car for the cops it wasn't a psychic revelation (though he'd been willing to let them think so); one of the cops mentioned it was an old musclecar and Sam just remembered it. He turned the smile to Jess. "I thought you were used to my freaky ways." He ran a hand up her leg from ankle to knee, smiling.

Jessica wouldn't allow him to distract her. "That's the point, Sam, I _am_ used to it. You've never done anything like this before. I want to know what's going on in that freaky head of yours."

Jess was his wife, and technically she was his boss, too; Sam owed her the truth on both counts. "Okay," he sighed. "But when I tell you, you're gonna want me off this case. Promise me you'll let me follow this through, Jess. It's important."

She shook her head and moved around, lifting her legs away from his body. Putting distance between them. "I won't make a promise that could compromise my professional judgement, Sam, and you shouldn't be asking me to."

"Jess…"

"No."

There's a _no_ that means _maybe_, and then there's the absolute _no_. Sam knew the difference when Jess said it, and this was definitely a no. He met her eyes. "I had a dream, Jess. I saw the murder and I saw Dean was in trouble. I _have_ to help him. I might be the only one who can."

"But why? Why him?"

"Because I owe him that much and more. The man he killed, John Winchester, is my father. Dean's my brother."

He watched her process that. She knew Grey wasn't his real name but she accepted he couldn't talk about his old family. They'd been building a future together, a new family…until they lost Rachel, their little daughter… But Sam shied away from that memory.

Finally, Jessica looked at him again. "Sam. Oh, Sam, you know you can't treat a family member as a patient!"

"I knew you'd say that."

"Medical ethics 101, Sam."

"If things were different, I'd agree, but, Jess…"

"He's a murderer, Sam. I don't want you to lose sight of that."

Sam wanted to reach for her, but this was a professional conversation; he resisted the impulse. "I don't think he murdered his father, Jess. I…I _saw_ what happened. I saw it through his eyes and it was Dean, but it wasn't and I don't know how to explain that. The only thing I'm sure of is this case is a lot more complicated than it looks. Dean has _got_ to remember what happened and you know my ability is the best chance for him to do that."

"You're not making sense, Sam."

"I know. So let me stick with it until it _does_ make sense. I'm begging you, Jess. Please let me help my brother."

***

Dean paced the small confines of the cell. He knew its exact dimensions now. Seven paces from the sleeping platform to the glass. Four from one side to the other. And that glass made him feel like Hannibal-fucking-Lector.

He couldn't take it all in at once. Somehow he'd lost three days of his life. That would be scary enough. But then this doctor claimed to be his little brother. Sammy who died – who was murdered by the fucking Psi Project – fifteen years ago. Dean didn't know whether to believe him or not. He'd never seen Sammy's body or visited his grave. So, yeah, maybe it was possible that Sammy didn't die.

But was this what his baby brother had become? He slammed Dean against the wall without even a gesture. Dean hunted ghosts and monsters and sometimes the monster turned out to be a rogue psychic. He'd put them down, just like any other monster. So Dean knew about psychics. He knew that the most powerful psychics had more than one ability. Sam – the doctor – called himself a dreamwalker: a psychic who could enter and control the dreams of others. A dreamwalker could dig out a person's worst fears and memories and turn them into a nightmare. They could drive a person to suicide or make them kill. If Sam was powerful enough to have secondary powers, and his primary talent was such a dangerous one, it was a miracle The Project allowed him to survive to adulthood.

_I fought for a chance to prove myself, and even after I won, I had to keep proving myself over and over._ That did sound like Dad's training. He taught them to play the roles expected of them, to appear innocent and harmless, to blend in. What Sam said: _If you're still breathing, if your heart's still beating, there's hope_ – those were John's words.

Of course, there were other ways a psychic could have lifted that phrase from Dean's memories. Did Dean dare to believe it? Was this man his brother?

Dean wanted to believe Sammy was alive, but he needed to believe the doctor lied to him. Because if he was telling the truth about who he was, then the other thing he said must also be the truth. It meant that John Winchester was dead. Dean couldn't believe that. His dad was indestructible. You could throw a fucking army at him and he'd find a way to bounce back.

The rest of it, the details, Dean dismissed. He would never have hurt his Dad, so it didn't matter what evidence the cops had, they were wrong. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrongly suspected of murder. It didn't matter to him. He would find a way out of it; he always did.

What mattered was being locked up in a nuthouse.

Dean pivoted to pace toward the glass again and saw an orderly there, watching him. "What do you want?"

"Time for you to take a shower, freshen up a little. Unless you'd rather stay there."

Dean thought fast. His first priority had to be escape, but he was thinking more clearly than the night before. If he was going to escape he needed information. He needed to know how many locked doors and guards were between him and the exit. The doctor said the institute was "intermediate security" – that meant Dean could beat it.

So he walked toward the glass, relaxing his body so his walk looked casual, his expression submissive. "Okay," he said agreeably. _Let them think I'm just another patient…until it's time to kick some ass._

Dean stepped out of the cell. The floor was cold under his bare feet. If he did escape, he wouldn't get far in the thin grey pants and t-shirt that the hospital dressed him in. Where were his own clothes?

The lights flickered as he followed the orderly down the corridor. Dean looked up at the lights, worried. There were no windows in sight. "Is it day?" he asked. The orderly gave him a weird look, and Dean added, "I mean, what time is it?"

"Eleven thirty in the morning."

"You got electrical problems?" Dean tried to make the question casual.

The orderly shrugged. "It's an old building. The wiring's a bit temperamental."

"I bet it's hell at night, huh? Blackouts, shorts all over the place…"

The orderly opened a door ahead of them. "You get used to it," he said.

That wasn't reassuring at all. Still, a place like this, you've got to figure it'd be haunted. It might not mean anything.

It was a communal bathroom, like a locker room: a row of shower heads along one wall, a row of sinks and a long mirror opposite and a wooden bench down the middle of the room. There were three cameras in corners of the room; between them they covered the whole room. So privacy wasn't an option.

"Take a shower," the orderly instructed. "You can shave, too, if you want to." He nodded toward the row of sinks. "I'll get you a toothbrush and some clean clothes."

"Yeah, thanks." Dean stripped where he stood and left the clothing on the bench. He walked over to the nearest shower head and turned the water on. He hadn't been aware of discomfort but the shower did feel good. The water was lukewarm at best and the soap was scentless and cheap, but the water pressure was good and even lukewarm water felt good to his aching muscles. Dean took his time. He found hypodermic bruises inside his arm, and felt the bruises on his shoulder blades from when he hit the wall. But those were surface injuries. The bone-deep ache in his muscles was worse.

Behind him, Dean heard the door open. He glanced around, saw another orderly, and went back to his shower. He didn't take much longer in the shower. He stepped out, dripping water and found a towel waiting on the bench. There was also fresh clothing with a toothbrush and a disposable razor sitting on top. Dean rubbed himself dry and pulled the pants on. He picked up the toothbrush and razor and walked over to the sink.

The mirror above the sink was old and dirty. The silvering was beginning to flake away from the back and finger smudges and splashes of soap covered the glass. Even so, Dean could see himself fairly clearly and the image in the mirror shocked him. The three-day beard he'd expected, but the dark circles under his eyes made him look like he'd come off worst in a bar fight. His cheeks were hollow, as if he hadn't eaten properly for weeks. And he was pale, his skin almost grey…or maybe that was just the bad lighting. Whatever. He looked sick.

_When you were admitted here you were having violent seizures. We used heavy sedatives and restraints to keep you from hurting yourself. You were in a state of withdrawal, almost catatonic, until last night._ Dean believed it now. It explained why he looked like a freaking zombie. It explained the pain in his muscles. But why would he have a seizure in the first place? He wasn't epileptic. He wasn't on drugs.

Dean picked up the soap and started to lather up. His actions were like an autopilot while he tried to make sense of everything that was happening to him. He picked up the razor and leaned closer to the mirror to start shaving.

There was a child behind him, reflected in the glass.

Dean froze. He almost turned around, but stopped himself. He stared at the girl's reflection.

On the road, in the storm. There was a little girl in flames.

Oh, shit.

_Okay, Dean, calm down. What do you know?_ Well, the kid was obviously a spirit. This was the second time he'd seen her, so she wanted something from him. A figure in flames…that had a very personal meaning for Dean, but he pushed the association aside. It couldn't be that. So what? What the hell did she want?

The ghost-child screamed, a banshee's scream, higher than a human voice. Rougher. Unending.

The mirror exploded out toward Dean, shattering into a thousand shards. Dean threw up his arms to protect his face. Broken glass raked his skin as it flew by. Shards burrowed into his face, his arms, his chest. There was blood everywhere. Dean fell backward, getting cut again by the glass now on the floor. The ghost scream filled his head, more painful than the glass, a sound that drilled into his brain until he couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't feel anything but pain.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam watched Dean through the one-way glass.

Dean sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his bare feet swinging slightly, his arms crossed over his chest as if he were hugging himself. Nurses had pulled the glass out of him. The worst of the cuts had been stitched, the rest just cleaned and left to heal. He had been given a mild sedative, to help with the pain and keep him calm.

Jessica moved in to his side and Sam slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in to his body. For comfort. "What do you think?" he asked her quietly.

"I think it was a suicide attempt," Jess said. She, too, spoke quietly. "The video shows he was at the mirror when it broke, though I can't see how he did it. But the mirror didn't smash itself." She looked at him suddenly. "Unless it did. I mean…" Jess broke off before speaking Sam's secret aloud, but he understood. Dean was Sam's brother.

"You think he's telekinetic?"

"Is it possible?" Jess asked.

Scientists had been studying psychic phenomena for fifty years. No one had been able to prove psychic ability was in the DNA, or identified the genes responsible. But it did seem to run in some families. Sam answered honestly. "If he is, Jess, he was never identified as a psychic. Dean took the tests at school. And I don't believe he's suicidal. There was no sign of that level of distress when I spoke to him." On the other hand, psychic abilities _could_ be involuntary. But even an involuntary use of power…the user would know.

"He tried to throttle you, Sam!"

Sam nodded. "Yes, but that was anger. He's paranoid, in denial. He thought I was lying to him. Violence was a normal reaction. But not this." He drew back to look at her. "Can I talk to him, boss?"

It made her smile. "The case is yours, Sam. Can you get him ready to talk to the cops tomorrow?"

"Put them off." A day wouldn't be enough.

"I don't think I can, Sam, he killed a man. The courts will only leave him with us if we demonstrate we can help. Otherwise he's going to be transferred to prison and the only help you'll be able to give him is finding a lawyer."

Sam thanked the nurse and asked for privacy. He picked up a chair and moved it closer to the bed where Dean waited.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Dean frowned. "How am I feeling?" he repeated, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "That's crap, dude. I just got a wall full of broken glass in my face. How do you think I feel?"

"Are you in pain? Because we can do something about that."

"I'm fine. Except…you know. These scars are gonna ruin my sex life."

Sam smiled, because he was supposed to. "I don't know. I hear some women like a little wear and tear in a man." More seriously, he added, "Dean, can we talk?"

Dean's smile vanished. "What's the point?"

So Dean was still suspicious of him. _Fine, let's keep this professional_. Sam nodded, settling himself into the chair. "Dean, can you tell me how you broke the mirror? I never knew you were telekinetic." It was always going to be an awkward question and Sam had no time to be subtle.

Dean's eyes flashed with anger. "You think I'm a freak like you? You think I did this to _myself_?"

"Didn't you?" Sam asked evenly.

"No, I fucking didn't!" Dean leapt off the bed and stalked toward the door. He saw the guards through the glass and pivoted to face Sam again. "Forget it, doc. You can't help me."

Sam hadn't expected such a vehement response. He stood when Dean did, but stayed where he was: it was important to seem non-threatening. "Alright, Dean. Why don't you tell me what _you_ think happened?"

Was it possible Dean was a psychic and didn't know it?

It was a mistake. "So now I'm nuts?" Dean snapped. "Fuck you, _doctor_."

"I didn't mean that," Sam protested. "Dean, please. Why won't you trust me?"

Dean walked toward him and laid both of his hands on Sam's shoulders, leaning close. "How can I trust someone who thinks I'm crazy?"

***

That afternoon, after he had eaten, Dean was taken into a courtyard "for some fresh air". It felt like the exercise yard of a prison: a square of grass with timber benches scattered around, surrounded by high walls and locked doors. It was the first time he'd been in the same room with other patients and their presence reinforced his feeling of being in prison. Men gathered in small groups around the yard, most of them sitting around, not talking or doing anything much that Dean could see. Others sat alone, morose and withdrawn. One man seemed to be counting a handful of pebbles over and over. This really was a nut-house.

_Holy crap. Maybe I died in that storm and this is Hell._

But this was a chance for Dean to get out of his cell and take a look around. He wanted to check out the lie of the land, assess the weaknesses in the security. There are always weaknesses in any security system: you just had to find them. Dean fully intended to escape from this hell hole; it was just a question of when and how. _When_ had to be soon; Dean was impatient to be out before he became as crazy as everyone else here. _How_ was harder. He was beginning to figure out an exit route but there was a lot of detail missing.

This place was a nightmare. Cops he could handle. If he were under arrest he'd have some rights. No matter what they believed he'd done he would be entitled to a phone call and contact with a lawyer. Dean knew how to work the system. But this was different. As a patient in a hospital, Dean was completely at their mercy. They could keep him in isolation for as long as they could fabricate a reason for it. They could drug him or chain him up, and it was all perfectly legal. Only his next-of-kin would have a chance of getting him out and, if Sam told him the truth, John was dead and unable to help him. So Dean had to co-operate. He had to be harmless; because if they decided he was dangerous he might never escape.

The problem was Dean _was_ dangerous. That was kinda hard to hide.

He paced the perimeter of the courtyard. He looked at his hands and arms, the skin streaked with cuts from the glass. None of the cuts were serious. He'd lost some blood, and the cuts on his face were likely to scar, but he'd gotten to see more of the hospital layout than he could have seen from his cell. In a way, the ghost-kid did him a favour. Huh.

He'd seen her before. She was on the road in the storm. In the rain…he'd seen her spirit in the road and…and ended up in the ditch because he tried to avoid hitting her. It was his last clear memory.

_A little girl grabbed his face, her hands in flames…_

_…She melted into the fire and Dean's legs gave way. He fell to his knees in the cold, driving rain…_

He had no memory of driving home but he did recall opening the door of the cabin he and John had rented.

_…The door squeaked a little as it swung open. "Dad? It's me."_

Then there was nothing until…

_…John, his face covered in blood, aiming a gun at him. Dean saw John's finger squeeze down on the trigger…_

_…Kneeling beside John's body, blood all over both of them, tears stinging his eyes…_

Dean sank to the ground. The grass was damp and cold beneath his ass, from the recent rain.

He remembered. Not clearly and not all of it, but enough. Enough.

_Dad's gone…oh, god…_

For an endless time, Dean stayed there. He felt numb. He couldn't think.

Crazy would be better than this. Anything would be better than believing those flashes of memory. John tried to kill him? That just wasn't possible…was it? Maybe it wasn't a true memory. Maybe it was just a nightmare he was remembering.

He needed help.

Dean made his choice. He scrambled to his feet and approached the nearest guard. "I want to see my doctor. Doctor Sam Grey."

***

Moving from the monotonous grey of the main institute hallways into the more welcoming staff wing, Dean felt a little like Dorothy walking out of her grey house into the Land of Oz. He hadn't realised how unpleasant grey stone could be. Dean had a guard on either side of him, and walked through four sets of locked doors before they emerged into the staff wing, and just crossing that last threshold felt like entering a new world. Suddenly there were colours: pale green paint on the walls, pictures, notice boards with brightly coloured posters and even a rug beneath his feet.

When they reached the destination, one of the guards knocked on the door. Dean read the name on the office door: Doctor Jessica L Grey. The guard opened the door for him and Dean walked in. He found himself in a large, wood-panelled office. There was a large, stained oak desk, bookshelves, a leather couch…it was impressive.

Sam was there, standing near the desk with a woman who had to be Dr Jessica L Grey. She wore her long, blonde hair loose down her back: a cascade of curls over her dark blue suit. Both she and Sam looked at Dean as he walked into the room. Dressed in his hospital greys, Dean felt very out of place. They had given him shoes though: soft-soled slip-ons. That was progress.

Sam glanced at the two guards. "Thanks John, Gareth. I'll call when I need you." To Dean he added, "Dean, this is Doctor Grey."

She came toward Dean smiling and offered her hand. "Jessica. Sam told me about your relationship, so, I think that makes us family."

Dean looked sharply at Sam. _That relationship that's all in your head?_ To Doctor Grey he said, "I think the jury's still out on that one." He took the hand she offered with a smile. She had a firm handshake and her skin was soft and warm to his touch. Under the severe suit, Doctor Grey was kinda hot.

Her welcoming smile changed a little under his gaze and Dean recognised the look. This was a woman accustomed to men finding her attractive. "I'm on my way to a meeting," she said, releasing his hand. Sam wanted to use my office so…" She turned her smile to Sam. Dean saw her expression soften. She really loved him. Another piece of information for Dean to file away.

"Thanks, Jess," Sam said.

Dean waited for her – and the two guards – to leave the room. He turned back to Sam. "She's your wife?" he asked.

Sam moved to the plush leather couch, gesturing for Dean to join him. "Yes, she is. Jess is head of our psychiatric team so technically, she's my boss, too."

"Huh." Working for the ball-and-chain. It was so healthy it was sickening. _I bet you've got two point four kids and a house with a white picket fence, too._ Dean sat down on the couch, a careful distance from Sam.

"Okay, Dean. You asked to see me. So what's on your mind?"

No small talk. Dean appreciated that. Straight down to business. "I think I remembered something. Something from that night."

"That's good." Sam's tone was careful, not quite patronising but edging that way. "What do you remember?"

The tone irritated Dean, but he ploughed on because he knew he needed help. "I was there. I was there when my dad was killed."

Sam nodded. "Yes, you were."

"I remember…but I wasn't alone. I don't know who was with me, or why, or what happened but there was someone else."

Sam's careful expression slipped into uncertainty. "Dean, the police found no evidence of a third person present."

Dean was ready for that one. "I'll bet they didn't look for it. I mean, our neighbours knew it was just me and Dad renting the cabin. Unless someone else saw the other person… But there's more. Sam, I've been seeing this girl…"

Sam smiled. "You always did."

"No, I mean a kid. That night, I ran my car into a ditch because I nearly hit a child on the bridge. Except it wasn't really a kid – it was a spirit. I saw her again here. In the bathroom."

"Do you mean when the mirror broke?"

"Yeah. I don't know how the girl's spirit is connected, but I'm sure she is. Sam, you live around here, right? Do you know of any kids who have died here, in the Institute? Or on that bridge?"

"No children have died here at the institute, Dean. This is a secure facility and we've never had a juvenile ward. What bridge are you talking about?"

Dean frowned, trying to remember. "It's a white wooden bridge about three miles west of Willow Creek."

Sam looked away from Dean. Dean caught something in his expression, some memory. "I know the bridge," Sam said. "I don't remember any deaths there. It's more a fishing hole than a suicide spot, but I'll check if you like."

"You know somethin'. About that bridge. Don't you?"

"Nothing relevant, Dean." Sam blinked a few times then met Dean's eyes again. "You said you ran your car off the road because you saw this…spirit. Was this near the bridge?"

Dean studied Sam closely: the slight hunch of his shoulders, the tension in his hands. Sam didn't believe him. He was behaving as if he didn't even believe in ghosts. But if he was really Dean's brother and John Winchester's son, then he_knew_ what was out there in the dark…didn't he?

Dean nodded uneasily. "Just before the bridge, yeah."

"Okay. What happened next? Do you remember?"

"I got out of the car." Dean frowned as he spoke, fighting to remember everything. It was like trying to recall a dream. "I thought I might have hit the kid, but she was still there, just standing in the middle of the road. I…I went to her…and she…she was on fire. She grabbed me… That's the last thing I remember clearly. After that, it's just fragments. I remember parking outside the cabin. I remember Dad pointing a gun at me. I remember sitting next to his body…but I didn't kill him, Sam! No way did I do that."

Sam looked thoughtful. He was silent for a long moment.

"You don't believe me," Dean said.

Sam leaned toward him slightly. "Dean, I'm _trying_. But you have to realise how this sounds."

"How does it sound, Sam?" Dean demanded. "If you're really my brother, then you know what's out there. You don't believe I ran into a ghost? It happens, dude!"

Sam nodded calmly. "Yes, it happens," he agreed. He hesitated, looking at Dean. "Alright. Just…just try to see this from my point of view. You've been through something so traumatic that you've blocked out all conscious memory of it. Your father is dead. And now you're talking to me about a ghostly figure in flames. Dean, I _know_ what that means to you and Dad."

Anger flared through him, hot and immediate. Dean shot up off the couch. "You stupid son of a bitch! This has nothing to do with mom!" _Fuck! I thought you'd help me, Sam._ Instead of help, Dean was just getting this Freudian bullshit. He walked away from Sam, blindly pacing the room. Dean was too angry to stay still. He couldn't look at Sam. If he did, he was gonna punch him and if he did that he would blow his chance to escape. So instead, Dean walked, looking around wildly for something he could focus on that wasn't Sam's face.

The small collection of photographs on top of a bookcase caught Dean's eye. The largest was a wedding photograph: Sam in a charcoal suit with Jessica in a white gown. Another showed Jessica with an older man: her father, perhaps? And there was one photograph of a child: a little girl about five years old. A girl Dean recognised.

Dean snatched up the photograph.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, coming toward him.

"Who is this? Sam, this is the girl I've been seeing!"

Sam took the picture from his hand. "Dean, that's enough."

"Just tell me who she is! Why did I see her on the bridge? Why flames? You know, Sam!"

"Stop this! Please, just stop!" Sam turned away, cradling the photograph against his chest.

The distress in Sam's voice got through to Dean and he backed off. "Okay, okay." This was Jessica's office. The other photographs on the bookcase were her family. Probably this child was family, too. Dean approached Sam slowly, carefully. "Who is she, Sam?" he asked softly.

Sam held the photo frame in his hands, gazing down at the girl's face. "She's my daughter. Rachel."

Sam spoke in the present tense but Dean knew the child was dead. You don't see spirits of living people. "She's beautiful," Dean said quietly.

"Yes, she was." Sam set the photograph back in its place on the bookcase.

"What happened?"

Sam met Dean's eyes. "Rachel was murdered four years ago." His eyes narrowed. "And, no, it wasn't on that bridge."

_But the bridge means something, doesn't it, Sam? I saw your face when I mentioned it. She was murdered? That's how angry spirits are born, dude._

Dean swallowed. "Sam, I'm sorry. I've never had kids. I don't know what you must have gone through. I do understand that this is painful, but…"

"Don't," Sam growled. For the first time, Dean saw anger in Sam's eyes, heard it in his voice. "Just fucking stop." The way Sam looked at Dean in that moment: the grim line of his mouth, the set of his jaw…Dean saw his father in Sam. Dean believed, then, that Sam told him the truth. This was John Winchester's son.

It made Dean hesitate, but only for a moment. "Sammy, you know the score. I saw this girl on the bridge and I know she's connected to whatever happened to Dad. I saw her again today." He held out his cut hands with their patchwork of dressings; he gestured to his torn face. "She did this to me."

"You're delusional."

"Dude, I wish I was. 'Cause there's only one way to stop her."

"For god's sake, Dean!"

"Sam, you have to do it. I _can't_, I'm locked in here. You have to open up her grave and salt and burn – "

Sam hit him, a single punch with all of his weight behind it. Dean staggered and touched his jaw gingerly. _I guess I asked for that._

Sam grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, forcing Dean to straighten up. He leaned in to Dean's face. "You are talking," he said through gritted teeth, "about desecrating _my daughter's grave_."

Dean swallowed. Yeah, Sam was right. This stuff was normal for Dean; it couldn't be easy for Sam to understand after so long away from his family. He spoke quietly, hoping Sam would know he understood. "I'm talking about laying her spirit to rest, Sam. As her father, you should want that."

Sam let him go, turning away. "This is crazy! You're telling me my little girl cut you up! That she somehow killed our father. Dean, don't you see how impossible that is?"

_You're a psychic and you're talking to _me_ about impossible?_ Sam wasn't going to listen. Hell, if their positions were reversed, Dean might not believe it himself. "Yeah, I know how it sounds, man. But I know what I saw."

Sam walked over to the desk and leaned over the intercom. "I think you've said enough." He punched a button and spoke into the phone, asking for security.

_Well, I fucked that up good_. Dean approached Sam cautiously, torn between needing to keep his distance and wanting to make Sam understand. "Sam, listen, please. This spirit has attacked me twice. I have no idea why. If you're not gonna deal with this, then you've got to let me have some salt. I need to keep her out, dude."

The door opened. Sam shook his head. "I can't do that, Dean."

"Bullshit! Sam, cut me a break here. She could kill me next time!"

Sam looked at the security guard. "We're done here."

***

Sam entered his work-room that evening with his thoughts still in chaos from his meeting with Dean. He had known that Dean was…disturbed, but raving about ghosts, fixating on the photograph of Rachel…Sam hadn't been prepared for that. Maybe he was wrong about Dean. On present evidence, he was either genuinely insane, or putting on a hell of an act. Some half-assed attempt to build an insanity defence, perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time a patient at the institute had tried it.

Somehow, he had to stop thinking about Dean. Sam needed to work.

All jokes about working in his sleep aside, Sam needed a working environment that was both comfortable and had minimal distraction. His working room was deliberately Spartan. An adapted private hospital room with white-painted walls, it contained only the bed, the nightstand and a plain rug on the floor. He changed his clothing before entering the room, exchanging the smart-casual suit for jogging pants and a simple sweater: dressed for comfort. So all he had to do was remove his shoes and he was ready.

Sam put the shoes away in the nightstand and sat down on the rug. He took several deep breaths, slowly, centring himself the way he'd been taught by his mentor at the Psi Project. It took longer than it should to clear his mind.

It was lucky Sam's dream schedule for the night wasn't a taxing one. Ashley Saylor, was first. Sam had been working with her for nearly two months. She was an addict: crack cocaine and heroin. Like everyone else, she had to go through withdrawal the hard way. Sam's job was to help her through it. He could give her a pleasant dream instead of the nightmares of paranoia withdrawal tended to inspire, and he was beginning to give her a vision of the future, something hopeful, something she could look forward to. The idea was give her enough strength to do the rest of the work herself. She was making good progress, and Sam's work with her was easy now because she wanted to be free of the drugs.

His second patient of the night would be the most challenging: Duane, a permanent resident of the Institute, committed by the court after he killed his wife. Duane had some serious personality disorders. Sam worked in cooperation with his therapist and was gradually getting to the source of Duane's trauma. Over the past year he had uncovered the layers in Duane's dreams and he was finally responding to treatment. He would always have some mental illness but Sam was hopeful that he would eventually be stable enough to leave the institute.

Lastly, Sam had a new patient, Mitchell Thorne. He was here voluntarily. Dreaming with him tonight would just be exploration, a time for Sam to learn how Mitchell dreamed, and to see how his issues manifested. The real work wouldn't begin until the third or fourth shared dream.

Dean should have been on Sam's schedule – that had been Sam's plan – but Dean made it clear he wouldn't consent and Sam believed that to invade someone's mind without their consent would be a kind of rape. Sam wouldn't deliberately enter anyone's dream-state without their permission, though he wished Dean would allow it. It was, for Sam, the quickest way to figure out the truth.

And his thoughts were back to Dean again. Sam stood up with a sigh, pushing aside all thought of Dean and his ravings. He had to work, now. He would worry about Dean in the morning.

Sam lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

***

Dean sat on the floor of his cell, leaning back against the sleeping platform. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about the spirit haunting him, and if he were honest with himself, he was scared. He didn't usually face an angry spirit so unprotected.

It was all too much to take in. The spirit was Sam's daughter…which would make her Dean's niece, wouldn't it? Maybe that was why she picked on him: they shared blood, and that forged a link between them even though Dean never knew she existed. But why would she attack him?

Spirits see things differently from the living. Could Dean be a proxy for her father? Shit, did _Sam_ do something to his own kid? Surely not…

…It would explain Sam's denial…

As if in answer to Dean's thoughts, the light outside his cell flickered. Dean rose to his feet and walked toward the glass, looking out into the dark corridor. The flickering was worse. Dean made up his mind. He was not going to be a victim to little ghost girl. He had no gun, no rock salt. He couldn't fight. So he needed a different strategy.

Dean pressed one hand against the glass. "Rachel? Rachel Grey. I know you're there, sweetheart. Let me see you."

Dean saw something like a ripple of water behind the glass and just like that, there she was. A five year old girl with shoulder-length dark hair and wearing a thin white nightgown. She was soaking wet, just as he'd seen her on the road. Her hair clung to her head and face; the nightgown dripped water, though the drips never reached the ground.

Dean drew in a shaky breath. What he was going to try was crazy, but then, crazy was appropriate to this setting. "Okay. Rachel, I know you want something from me. Is it revenge? You want whoever hurt you?"

She merely looked at him, her eyes dark and serious. Her face was terribly bruised.

Dean took that as a yes. "I can do that for you," he told her. Hell, he was already facing a murder charge; what was one more? And anyone who would murder a child… He went on, addressing Rachel as if she were a living adult. "But this is a two-way deal, kiddo. I do that for you, you've gotta do something for me. I want out of this cell."

Rachel raised her hands to the glass. Dean stepped back quickly, not wanting another set of scars, but she laid one dripping hand over the lock. He saw her flesh flare into flame and heard the lock click open.

Dean hadn't really believed it would work. He grinned. "Alright!" He pushed the glass door open and stepped into the corridor. Rachel gazed at him expectantly. Dean nodded. "A deal's a deal, I guess. But if you ain't gonna speak to me, honey, you'll have to show me. Show me what you want."

And if she led him to Sam? Would Dean kill his own brother?

The stone floor was cold beneath Dean's feet. Rachel had vanished.

_Would I kill a psychic freak who offed a little girl? Damn straight I will. If that's what happened._

For now, it seemed Dean was on his own. He walked toward the nurses' room, which was the only source of light. Cautiously he peered through the small square of glass.

The room was empty! Dean saw a coffee cup on the table, next to an open magazine – porn. Dean smiled to himself. Maybe whoever was supposed to be on duty ducked out for a little personal time. Whatever, it was Dean's lucky night. He opened the door as quietly as he could, blinking against the suddenly bright light. He was through the room and looking through the next door in no time. He saw no one outside, so slipped out quickly. Dean knew from his earlier recon that he had a locked door to get through next, then another with a manned guard station. He needed to find a weapon and something he could use to pick a lock, or this was gonna be a real short trip.

"I guess I'm on my own for now, Rachel, but a hint would be nice…" Dean whispered the words, and the lights flickered, just a little. He saw Rachel appear some distance from him: a moment, then she vanished again. She was leading him somewhere. Dean followed.

That was how it happened. Dean followed Rachel's spirit through the hallways of the Institute. He figured out quickly that she wasn't showing him a way out. She was leading him deeper into the rabbit-warren hallways. Dean reached the guard station and pressed himself flat against the wall, watching. The uniformed guard was hunched over a desk, a book open in front of him. There was a bank of TV screens in front of him, but he wasn't watching them. Beyond the guard, on the other side of a locked prison door, Dean saw Rachel watching him.

There was no way he could sneak past the guard. A simple distraction wouldn't be enough for him to get through unseen. He needed to take the guard out.

The screens in front of the guard flickered and dissolved into white noise. The guard abandoned his novel and tapped one of the screens. He half-stood and reached behind the bank of screens.

Dean moved. He hooked his arm around the guard's neck, cutting off the man's air. The guard struggled. Dean pushed the guard's chair into the desk, trapping the guard there and tightened his stranglehold slowly. It didn't take long. Dean sat the unconscious man up and turned his chair toward the screens so he appeared to be watching. He closed the man's book: it was _Carrie_ by Stephen King, and stole the ring of keys from the guard's belt.

"Thanks, Rachel," Dean whispered. "Couldn't have done it without you."

He quickly found the right key and unlocked the door ahead. Dean knew that there must be security cameras everywhere and he was sure someone must be aware of him by now. So he needed to move quickly. Where was Rachel taking him? Why?

Rachel's spirit led him into the women's wing of the Institute. He followed her into what seemed to be a low-security ward; there were no locked doors, no guards. Just a nurse's station he slipped past easily. His ghostly guide drifted ahead of him, no longer appearing and disappearing. She drifted into a room, vanishing through the door. Dean headed for the door. There was a square glass pane in the middle of it and a number above the glass: 83. Whatever Rachel wanted from him, it was in this room.

Dean approached the door apprehensively. From within, he heard a sound: a woman's voice in pain or protest. The sound made him move faster and he peered through the glass into the darkened room.

He saw the woman, lying in her bed, a pale sheet tangled around her legs. She wore a hospital-issue nightshirt. She thrashed from side to side, but to Dean it looked like a simple nightmare. He saw no sign of Rachel.

Then he saw the outline of a hand on the woman's nightshirt. The barely-visible hand pushed her shirt upward, above her waist. She cried out again wordlessly. Her hands batted at a body Dean couldn't see. It was there…and it was not. Not invisible, but like a mirage: there one moment, a vanishing shimmer the next.

Dean had seen enough. He knew rape when he saw it.

"Hey!" he yelled without thinking, reaching for the handle of the door.

The spirit rushed toward the glass and Dean jerked back. For an instant, he saw it clearly: a man, his body naked, tattooed, the face bearded. Then the image vanished. Dean caught his breath and went to the window again. He heard the woman crying, saw her struggle against hands he could no longer see. The door handle wouldn't turn. Dean pushed at it, shook it, but the door wouldn't move.

Dean backed off and ran at the door, hoping to break it open. All it got him was a bruised shoulder. The door remained stubbornly closed. Maybe one of the keys he was holding would open it. Maybe he could break the door down eventually, but there wasn't time for either. The woman needed help – now.

There was only one thing left to do. Dean took off at a run, shouting at the top of his voice. He burst through the door toward the nurses' station. Rachel stood in the middle of the hallway. She screamed into Dean's face, flames bursting around her. Dean whirled and ran in the other direction, still shouting for someone to help.

***

The high-pitched beep of Sam's emergency pager roused him from sleep before he was finished dreaming with Ashley. He sat up in the bed, disoriented. He took a deep breath to ground himself.

The pager beeped again and Sam grabbed for it. He checked the number and turned the signal off, then touched the intercom. "This is Doctor Sam Grey. I was paged?"

"Yes, doctor, thank you for calling so promptly."

"Talk to me."

"Your patient, Winchester, escaped from his cell and broke into the women's wing. We recaptured him, and he's demanding to see you."

"He what?" Sam said, shocked. Then he added quickly, "No, never mind. I heard you. I'm on my way."

Dean had been moved to the maximum security ward. Here each cell was a cage with bars on all four sides; inmates had no privacy, and each cell was constantly monitored. Sam found Dean in restraints again, tied down to a hospital bed. His was the only occupied cell on the ward: the ward itself was a relic of harsher times and used only when absolutely necessary. If Institute patients were so violent as to need permanent housing in maximum security, they were transferred to a different hospital with more appropriate facilities. For Dean to be restrained here, Sam knew he must have seriously hurt someone, or tried to.

"Have you given him anything?" Sam asked the nurse.

"Five CC Haloperidol to subdue him. Nothing else as per your instructions."

Sam nodded, acknowledging. "Good. Prepare another five CC just in case. And lock the cell behind me."

There was just enough room in the cell for Sam to stand beside the bed where Dean would be able to see him. He looked down at his brother. "Hi."

Dean tried to raise his head, but the position he lay in made it difficult. He met Sam's eyes and spoke urgently. "Sam, there's a woman in room eighty-three. She was being attacked. You've got to check on her, dude. Make sure she's okay."

It was the last thing Sam expected him to say. "What are you talking about?"

Dean pulled against the restraints and half-shouted. "Room eighty-three! She was hurt, screaming. Damn it, Sam, I don't care if you believe me but check her!"

It sounded like more of Dean's craziness, but Sam went to the cell door. "Who's in room eighty-three?" he asked.

The nurse seemed to share Sam's thoughts because she answered, "Doctor no one has been attacked except by him."

"Just answer the question, please."

She looked chastened. "I'll find out."

Sam returned to Dean's side. "Dean, did you hurt someone?" he asked carefully.

"I took out a security guard," Dean said. "But I was careful. He'll be fine."

"And this woman you're talking about?"

"You still think I'm delusional, don't you? Dude, I don't _know_ exactly what I saw but I think it was a spirit."

Sam struggled to keep his expression neutral. "A spirit. Another one."

"Doctor?" The nurse called to him and Sam looked her way. "Room eighty-three is Chloe Sava."

Sam felt his stomach drop down to his toes. _Oh, god. Chloe?_ He looked at Dean. A moment before Sam had been ready to write this off as nonsense: a delusion or an invention. But Chloe? Sam didn't believe in coincidences.

"Dean, when you said you saw a woman being attacked…did you mean rape?"

"Yeah." Dean seemed to relax. He'd just wanted someone to believe him.

Sam strode to the door. "Have Chloe moved to medical right away. Check her for injuries and _don't leave her alone_." The nurse looked startled, but she muttered a _yes, doctor_, and hurried off. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He returned to his brother and leaned back against the bars. "Dean, tell me what happened. All of it."

"Untie me first."

Sam shook his head. "Not this time. Talk to me, Dean. Then we'll see."

Dean swore. "You won't believe me." He turned his head away.

Sam sighed. "I realise you have no reason to trust me right now, but I'm listening, Dean. I believe you saw something attack Chloe, but I need you to tell me everything. Let's start with how you got out of your cell."

Dean looked up at him, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "Rachel's spirit let me out."

Telekinesis was easier to believe, but Sam nodded, accepting Dean's statement for now. "Okay. And then…?"

Dean told him everything.

***

Doctor Diane MacKenzie stripped off her surgical gloves as she approached Jessica. Sam rose from the bench where he'd been waiting and moved to Jess's side. MacKenzie didn't look at him.

"I can't explain it," she said to Jessica. "I found no trace of semen, or any other biological matter from an attacker. But she was raped, there's no doubt of that. I found fresh bruises on her thighs and upper arms, clearly the imprints of fingers, and there's vaginal tearing." MacKenzie looked at Sam, then. "There are also indications that this has happened to her before. She has bruises in different stages of healing. Some a day or two old, others a week."

Sam was offended by her implication. Diane MacKenzie wasn't comfortable with psychics. She was also correct in that this was something Sam _could_ have done; he had the power to do it. But for MacKenzie to imply he was guilty, in front of Sam's wife, was unacceptable.

"Diane," Sam said softly, using her first name deliberately, "I requested this exam. I wouldn't have done that if I were responsible. Would I?"

"I have no other explanation for these findings," MacKenzie said shortly.

Jessica laid a restraining hand on Sam's arm. "I hear you, Diane. Let me test my understanding here. Can you _prove_ that Chloe has been assaulted before tonight?"

"Nothing I have is absolute proof. But I can gather the evidence, yes."

"Can you extrapolate a handprint from the bruises? Something we could use to identify the attacker?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Please do so, and submit a written report as soon as you can." Jessica waited for MacKenzie to leave and then turned to Sam. "Could Dean Winchester have done this?"

Sam was prepared for the question, because he would have asked it himself in her place. "He was never in her room. In spite of the evidence, Jess, I don't believe Dean is a psychic. Even if he is, Dean took the Psi Project test three times, at eight, twelve and sixteen, just like every other kid. He wasn't identified. So if he _does_ have some psychic ability, he can't be powerful enough to have done this to Chloe." Psychic power was at its strongest in a person at puberty. If Dean didn't have enough power to register when he was sixteen, he didn't now.

But even if Dean _were_ a powerful telekinetic – which he wasn't – Sam still knew he wasn't the attacker. No, Chloe's ordeal didn't start when Dean entered the Institute. It had been going on for years.

"I know what you're thinking," Jessica said worriedly.

Sam met her eyes. He kept his voice low, not wanting anyone to overhear. "She tried to tell me, Jess. She's been telling me for as long as I've been working with her and I wasn't listening. God!" He ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't do this to her, but I'm responsible. I should have known. I should have stopped it."

Jess reached up to him. "Don't blame yourself, Sam. I didn't believe Chloe's rape stories, either. _I_ thought you were crazy when you suggested an exam today."

"I know. But I…shit, Jess. What that girl has been through…" He took her into his arms, holding her tightly against him.

Jess hugged him back, comforting. "It's okay, Sam."

It wasn't okay. Nothing could _make_ it okay that Sam had failed Chloe so completely. Now Sam needed to make certain it would never happen to her again.

He stepped away from Jess as MacKenzie walked past them. "Diane. Can I see her?"

Diane shook her head firmly. "She's a rape victim, Doctor Grey. I don't think she needs male company right now."

"I'm her doctor."

"Even so," MacKenzie insisted.

Perhaps she was right. "Alright," Sam conceded. "No, Jess, it's okay. I need to speak with her but it doesn't have to be today. She's right. Can you make time for her today, Jess?"

"Of course," she agreed.

Good. MacKenzie had played the gender card, but she couldn't object to Jess on that ground, and Jess outranked Diane. It was the best Sam could do for now. But there was one more thing. He turned to leave the medical bay.

"Where are you going?" Jess called after him.

"To get some salt."

***

"You gave Winchester a sedative?" Sam read from the chart. "Why?" Damn it, he needed to talk to Dean. He'd been trying to get away all day and now it was evening and this was the first chance he'd had. And Dean was sedated. Shit.

The nurse took the chart from Sam and replaced it on the wall. "The patient hadn't slept for over twenty four hours and he appeared agitated. He requested something to help him sleep."

No, that was wrong. "Dean _asked_ for a sedative?" he repeated.

"Yes. Is there a problem, Doctor?"

"Uh, no, I just wanted to speak to him. It will wait until morning. Thank you."

Why would Dean have requested a sedative? Was he that afraid of the ghost he kept seeing? Well, there was no use worrying about it now.

Sam was halfway to his workroom before it occurred to him that the request might be Dean's version of an invitation.

He called Jess from the workroom and told her he was going to start early to make up for the sessions he'd missed the night before. "How's Chloe?" he asked, before he disconnected.

"I had a session with her this afternoon," Jess told him. "She's a mess, Sam, but I think she's past the crisis point. You know, when you hit rock bottom…"

"…The only way to go is up," Sam finished with her. It was Jess's basic principle of therapy in trauma cases. "For Chloe, rock bottom is a long way down, baby."

"I know, and I'm worried. She'll have someone with her all night, Sam. And you can watch her your way if you want to."

Sam wasn't going to watch Chloe tonight. He a plan to take care of Chloe, but he intended to protect her permanently, not just for one night. He answered, "I'll look in on her, but it's probably best for me to keep my distance. I'm part of her trauma now."

"It wasn't your fault, Sam."

"Not my fault, but my responsibility."

"You _saved_ her, darling," Jessica insisted. "Let's talk this over in the morning, okay?"

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you, too. Sweet dreams."

That made Sam laugh and she disconnected while he was still laughing. Sam set the intercom to divert all calls and turned off his emergency pager. He wanted no interruptions tonight. He prepared himself and lay down on the bed to dreamwalk.

Sam couldn't remember a time when he didn't share the dreams of others. It was so natural to Sam it freaked him out when he realised not everyone could do it. He'd never realised it was something special. Sam had always dreamed with his father and with Dean, but as a child his dreamwalking was passive. He shared their dreams; he didn't control them. Only after The Psi Project took him from his family did Sam learn he could be active in the dreams of others. He was a Dreamwalker. He could enter and shape the worlds of others' dreams. Dream is where the conscious and subconscious minds meet and interact. The ability to control that place is the ability to control the dreamer, or it could be, which was why so few Dreamwalkers were allowed to live to adulthood. None as powerful as Sam was ever allowed to live.

Sam survived. He was the most powerful active psychic ever to graduate from The Psi Project. Passive psychics were safe; they were the children whose powers involved receiving impressions, but not sending – the empaths and pre-cogs. They couldn't directly harm anyone with their abilities, so they were trained and encouraged. They were safe. Active psychics like Sam had to prove themselves safe. Sam convinced his Psi Project mentors, including other psychics, that he would never use his ability to do harm.

Now, he was about to use his ability to break the law. And if he was wrong about Dean, he was going to have to use it to kill.

Usually, when Sam began dreamwalking, he had to skim through many sleeping minds around him before he found the person he wanted. On this night, it was different.

Sam slid into Dean's mind as easily as a key fitting into the lock it was made for. It felt like he'd found a missing part of himself. Dream-sharing was never so easy, not even with Jess.

He made himself passive at first, simply observing. Dean's dream-self was a few years younger than he was in reality, which was quite common. In his dream he was driving across a sun-kissed landscape that could have been any of the tall-corn states: a long, straight road with fields on both sides. The car Sam remembered with affection: his father's old Chevy Impala. Sam remembered filling the rear seat up with his toys and kicking the back of the driver's seat when he got impatient with the constant driving. There was music playing, the car windows were open and the wind rushed by as Dean drove. It was Dean's perfect world, Sam thought, which, given his situation was a hopeful sign.

Sam placed himself in the front seat alongside Dean and gave that little mental nudge that would make Dean aware of his presence.

"Took you long enough," Dean remarked.

Sam grinned. "I wasn't certain I'd been invited. We need to talk, Dean."

"Yeah. I know."

With a thought, Sam took control of the dream. The landscape around the car dissolved, followed by the car itself. Sam took them into a setting he hoped would be comfortable for both of them. It was the last bedroom he and Dean had shared: a tiny boxroom with barely enough space for their two beds. The setting was probably not exactly right but Sam built it to match his memory: Dean's poster on the ceiling, the cracked mirror, the clothing piled on the chair, the stack of Sam's schoolbooks and the box of weapons under the bed. They were both sitting on Dean's bed.

Dean looked around in surprise. "What the – ?" He stared at Sam. "Is this your dream or mine?"

"Both," Sam grinned back. "This is what I do, Dean." He hesitated, then added more seriously, "I owe you a huge apology."

Dean shook his head. "Fuck the apology. How's the woman?"

"Her name's Chloe. A doctor has checked her out and she's safe for now."

"For now? What does that mean?"

Sam moved across to the other bed so he could look at Dean comfortably. "If I understood you this morning, my daughter…Rachel's ghost led you to Chloe."

Dean nodded, lifting his feet up onto the bed, crumpling the comforter. "That's right."

"Then she's not…responsible…for what happened to Chloe?"

"No, I think she was trying to save her. What attacked Chloe was a spirit. A man's spirit."

"You see, Dean, that spirit has been abusing Chloe for a long time. I think as long as I've been treating her."

Dean fell silent. He looked down at the floor, then back to Sam. "How long?" he asked, in a voice that told Sam he understood the implication.

"More than three years."

"Holy crap."

"Dean, I don't know how to stop this. But _you_ can."

"Not while I'm locked up in a freakin' cell."

Which got to the point nicely. Sam nodded. "That's why I'm here. To fix that. But if I help you escape, Dean, you've got to promise me you'll stop this spirit."

Dean didn't answer at once. He leaned down and pulled the box out from beneath his bed. He opened it and pulled out a gun. He turned the gun over in his hands before looking back to Sam. "Dude, it's not that easy. Chloe – you can protect her by surrounding her room with salt. Especially the doors and windows. A spirit can't cross a salt line. But whatever attacked her is one seriously pissed-off spirit, Sammy. If I'm gonna stop it, I need to find out who he is. Was."

"Well, you can't do that from your cell."

"How long did it take you to notice that, genius?" Dean leaned back against the blue-painted wall. "Boring dream, Sammy. You know we could have our little get together in a strip joint or the Superbowl."

"We could," Sam grinned. "Familiar is best for a first session and the setting has to be static or you won't remember when you wake up."

"It doesn't matter what I remember, Sam. I can't do anything."

"Yes, you can. That's why I'm here. When you found Chloe last night, you were trying to find a way out, weren't you?"

"No!" Dean said sarcastically. "I was just lookin' for the swimming pool."

"I'm serious, Dean. If you'd found a way out, what were you gonna do? Where would you go?"

Dean was still holding the gun. He popped the clip, checking the contents, then slammed it back in. "Willow Creek, first. I've got to know what happened to Dad, Sam. All our research is there, everything. I think he'd identified this spirit of yours. Or he was close."

"Wait a minute. You and Dad…you were _already_ looking for the spirit that raped Chloe? How?"

Dean shook his head. "A friend of ours…another hunter, died near Willow Creek a couple of months ago. When we heard about it, we came to find out what happened. So we rented the cabin and started tryin' to retrace Ellie's hunt. We were still working the case when…" Dean's voice trailed off.

Sam could feel Dean's memory, something close to the surface. He relaxed his control of the dream – not completely, but enough to let Dean's memory emerge.

_Dean was in the Impala, driving in the rain. Through the rearview mirror he could see the lights of the roadblock behind him. He pulled out his cell phone. "Dad, it's me. I'm on my way home but I just got detoured by the cops, so I'm gonna be a while longer."_

_John was silent for a moment before he answered. "Hurry, Dean. I need you here."_

_Dean frowned. "Dad, what's wrong?"_

_"Just some new information," John said, but Dean could tell it wasn't "just" anything. John sounded worried, even shaken. "I'll tell you when you get here. What's your ETA, Dean?"_

_"Um…in this rain I'm not sure. An hour, maybe." Something appeared in the road in front of him; a figure, pale and small. Visibility was down to almost nothing; Dean had no time to stop. "Holy crap!" _

_Dean swerved to avoid the figure and slammed on the brakes. The Impala lost traction on the wet road and the tyres screeched as she spun out of control. Dean dropped his phone and wrenched the wheel around, fighting for control of the car. She came to a stop in the ditch at the side of the road._

Dean leapt off the bed. "What the hell…?" He stared at Sam accusingly.

Sam allowed the room to melt away around them. "It was your memory, Dean, that's all. That's how dreams work. Your thoughts, your memories, can be real in your dreams." The room began to reform, to whatever shape was in Dean's mind. Timber walls, a dimly-lit room. The cabin?

Dean looked around. "Dad knew. The answer is here somewhere, Sam!" He marched over to a table, looking for something, but the table stood empty.

Sam understood. "Then we need to get you there. In reality, not in your dream." He asserted control over the dream setting again, taking them both into the maximum security cell where Dean was sleeping. Sam stood at the edge of the cell, leaning against the bars. Dean lay on the bed. Sam had left him free of the restraints, of course, so Dean sat up at once.

"What are we doin' here?"

"You're about to escape," Sam explained.

"Escaping in a dream isn't gonna help, dude."

"Yes, it will. You'll do it once, now. I'll show you how to get out, how to avoid security. When you wake up, you'll remember the route."

"And I'll still be chained up in a cage," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam admitted. "I think I can do something about that. I'm going to try, anyway. But the most I can do is get you out of the cell. The rest is up to you."

Dean nodded, but he met Sam's eyes looking worried. "Are you gonna get into trouble for this?" he asked pointedly.

Sam grinned. "The really cool part about being psychic is no one will be able to prove I've even talked to you tonight. Unless they got a telepath to read me but…" his smile became cold, "I'm powerful enough to keep them out if I need to."

"Okay then. What are we waitin' for?"

***

Sam rose from Dean's inner dreamscape, swimming through the clouds of image and sensation, but he did not let himself wake. He cast out among the sleeping minds around him, touching first one (female, restless) then the next (male, afraid, shying away from his mind-touch). Sam caught fleeting impressions of their thoughts and dreams.

_A child throwing a basketball up to a hoop too high for the child's small reach…_

_A dog, snarling as it leapt to the attack…_

_A woman, naked and sweat-soaked…_

_Flying, moving fast over endless ocean…_

He could spend all night like this, flitting from mind to mind, touching but never intruding. Now, however, he was looking for one mind in particular. A mind that wouldn’t be sleeping, exactly, but it was the night shift and he would be bored to death. Sam might have a chance.

Sam had never tried this before. He knew it was possible, but he had ethics, damn it. This wasn't therapy, it was mind-rape. It was evil.

Sam slipped into the spaces between the man's conscious and unconscious minds. He touched carefully; if he was noticed, this was over. He found a thought – the man's memory of a football game – and as unobtrusively as a mouse Sam nudged the thought into a daydream. Just a pleasant little daydream to while away the long hours of the night. From there it was easy to push him into that odd half-asleep state where the daydream could become a real dream. Once the man was there, Sam had full control.

He could keep the man asleep indefinitely, if he wanted to. If Sam used his full power, not even medical intervention would wake the man up. Drugs might wake his body; his mind was Sam's. But it wasn't Sam's purpose to turn the man into a vegetable. He gave him a sweet, pleasant dream and pushed his mind deeply into it, so it would be at least two hours before he woke. It was enough.

Withdrawing carefully, Sam woke himself up. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, to take a sip of water from the nightstand, but that was all. Dean was depending on him, and the next thing Sam had to do was going to be difficult. In theory, distance was irrelevant to psychic ability. Science had proved, for example, that telepathic communication truly is instantaneous, not limited to the speed of light as electronic communication had to be. There was a pilot program sponsored by the Psi Project to use telepaths to communicate between the space colonies. Sam didn't think it would work as a replacement, but he'd followed the program with interest.

Sam should be able to share a dream with anyone he knew well, and if they were in the same bed, or a thousand miles apart it made no difference. But that was dreaming. Dreaming was Sam's strongest ability and it was the one over which he had the most control.

This was different.

Awake, Sam lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and visualised himself leaving his physical body behind. Was it real astral projection, or just a visualisation? It didn't matter, as long as it worked. Whether Sam was truly leaving his own body made no difference; it mattered only that he saw the room clearly, that he _believed_ he was standing there, looking down at his own body.

When the image was strong in his mind, Sam moved his spirit-self out into the hallways of the Institute. He could move swiftly in this form because it wasn't the journey that mattered: only the destination. The destination was Dean's locked cell.

His spirit self found Dean still sleeping. Sam could do nothing about that: it was important for Dean to wake on his own. Dean slept, apparently peacefully, his ankles and wrists still restrained by heavy buckled cuffs. Sam reached toward the restraints and tried to touch them. It took him five attempts to get the necessary control, but eventually he managed to move the first buckle. It was like riding a bicycle: once his mind stumbled onto the trick of it, he could do it. He undid each buckle carefully, freeing his brother.

Now for the cell door. For this, he made his spirit-self tiny, so he could literally climb inside the lock to see how it worked. He dropped the tumblers and the lock disengaged with a loud click. Sam smiled to himself. Job done. The rest was up to Dean.

With the thought, he was back in his own body, cold and shivering. He rubbed his arms, trying to get his circulation going and prayed Dean would wake up in time.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean came awake with a jerk, his mind full of doors and numbers. He tried to pull free of the restraints and was amazed to find his wrists free. He sat up. "Nice work, Sammy," he said aloud. Dean pushed the blanket aside and went to the cell door. It swung open to his touch. Dean smiled. "I don't know if you can hear me, Sam, but if you can, you're a useful guy to have around." He headed out, closing the cell door behind him.

The first part was easy. Sam had promised him that the guard wouldn't see him, but it was truly weird to experience it. The guard sat at a desk, a row of screens in front of him. He looked bored, even normal. He glanced Dean's way as he passed, but he looked _through_ Dean as if he wasn't there.

_The guard on the secure ward won't see you, Dean, but I can't risk messing with more than one of them and the cameras _will_ see you. So once you're past the first guard station, assume the alarm has been raised. They'll expect you to head for the exit, so that's the one thing you shouldn't do. Turn right out of the secure unit and head up._

Dean stayed close to the wall as he walked quickly through the dimly-lit corridors. Thanks to Sammy, he knew the way as if he had walked these hallways a hundred times. Details were odd: at one point Dean noticed a poster on the wall – one of those dumb "inspirational" posters with a picture of a bunny and a pithy quote – but he _remembered_ it being different. Dean didn't allow it to distract him. He found the door to the stairwell and started to climb.

He felt the strain in his muscles almost at once. That bone-deep ache which was the legacy of the seizures he didn't remember was better but still very much present. He couldn't let it slow him down.

_Come out of the stairwell on the fifth floor. You'll see a door marked _private_ with a keypad lock. The code is 4321. It used to be a break room for the nursing staff. Now it's a storage closet._

The closet was right where Sam promised and the code let Dean in. Inside he found a rack of coveralls and – beautiful – a stack of boots. He pulled a coverall on over what he was already wearing and buttoned them quickly. He couldn't find boots his size, but he picked the pair closest on the theory that ill-fitting boots were better than bare feet for going on the lam. Then he went through the rest of the cupboards. He found a set of screwdrivers and pocketed the smallest in case he needed a lock-pick. There was a chisel, too, sharp enough that Dean slid it into his sleeve, just in case.

He left the room, walking openly this time, as if he belonged there. He followed the hallway past two wards into an office area. This part of the hospital was quiet, office staff gone for the night. Dean reached the end of the hallway and found the door marked _Fire Exit_. He opened the door, and caught himself actually holding his breath in case he tripped the fire alarm (Sam hadn't been sure whether the door was wired) but it was silent. He found himself on a metal mesh platform like the fire escapes you find on the sides of New York brownstones, with a chicken-wire fence opposite. Dean looked up at the fence, remembering Sam's instructions.

_If you go down the fire escape you'll end up at the main entrance. That's okay in a pinch, but it'll be better if you can escape without being seen. So if you can do it, you want to go over the fence and climb down the outside. The security cameras don't cover that area._

Dean had thought, in the dream, that this would be easy. On a normal day, it would have been: he was strong, athletic and used to physical exertion. But he had reckoned without his physical weakness. Damn it, he was a hunter! He was a Winchester. He could do this because he _had_ to and because there was a spirit out there hurting people. Dean gripped the fence with both hands and shook it hard to test its strength. The fence seemed solidly attached. He looked down. Five storeys was a long way to fall.

He hauled himself up and over the fence and began the long climb downward. The holes in the wire were too small for decent footholds. Dean had to hang on with his hands, wire digging into his palms. He crept downward, inch by inch, his feet slipping, clinging to the fence with every move.

The sudden blare of the alarm and a sudden flood of light made Dean lose his grip. He fell, sliding downward, grabbing frantically at the fence. For a moment his fingers closed over wire. His downward momentum jerked his arm straight and he felt something within him rip, Pain made him cry out. The wire slipped through his fingers. Dean hit the ground heavily.

For a moment, he could do nothing but lie there, winded. His arm hurt like hell but he was down and he was alive and he was one step closer to freedom. The still-blaring alarm brought him back to his senses. He had to move! Dean used the fence to drag himself upright and once he was on his feet he felt a little better.

_If you follow the fence around you'll end up in the staff block. The door code is 5249. There's a gym on the first floor and a swimming pool. That block opens directly onto the staff parking lot. There's a security station near the door which should have two guards._

The swimming pool was dark, but light filtered in from the hallway and reflected off the water, painting silver ripples on the walls. Dean went through that room because he figured it was the safest route, but he was halfway across the pool room when he saw the glare of flashlights through the far door.

Shit!

The flashlights moved closer and he heard voices ahead. They were coming to the pool. Probably searching every room in the place. Dean looked around. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere except…

Dean sat on the edge of the pool, drew in a deep breath and slid under the water, moving as slowly as he dared to disturb the water as little as possible. It was a heated pool and the water was cool, but not cold as it closed over his head. Dean sank down and down until he could feel the bottom of the pool with his feet. The wet clothing weighed him down but he felt for a handhold anyway. He looked up through the water and saw light moving above as the men swept the room with flashlights. Dean felt a few bubbles of breath escape his lips. His lungs were burning and the pain in his injured arm was rapidly becoming agony. The lights above were still moving across the water. Dean fought to stay down, to keep his breath inside. Finally, he couldn't stay underwater any longer. He had no way to be sure they were gone but it was breathe or drown. He pushed up and came to the surface gasping for air, clinging weakly to the side of the pool.

But he was alone.

He crawled out of the water and lay at the side of the pool, waiting for his breathing to steady. When he thought he could move, Dean took the time to strip off the coverall: the fabric was heavy and wet it was even heavier. And cold. Dean stripped off, poured water out of his boots, rolled up the coverall and twisted it as hard as he could to wring out the water. He repeated the process with the pants and t-shirt, then pulled the still-wet clothing back on. It was uncomfortable, but as his only alternative was to go naked, it would have to do. He took the chisel and screwdriver he'd purloined and, holding both in his left hand, he made for the door, boots still squelching wetly around his feet.

Through the door, he could see the security station across the way, and the exit beyond. He saw only one guard there. Sam said there would be two. Where was the other? He opened the door a little and heard the crackle of a radio. The guard on the security station spoke into it; Dean couldn't catch his words. Maybe the second guard was one of those searching for Dean.

Dean couldn't wait any longer. Sooner or later the searchers would come back through the pool and he would be caught. Dean didn't see another option. He had to get past the guard; he had to take the guard down.

There was no way to sneak past him. Soaking wet from the pool, Dean couldn't exactly blend in. Sam would be pissed if he killed the guard…and Dean wasn't into murdering civilians anyway. He was as sure as he could be that the guard was alone. Fast and direct: that was best.

Dean considered his two weapons. He slipped the screwdriver into his boot. The chisel he flipped over in his hand, holding it like a knife. He kept it out of sight at his side, put on a brash grin and sauntered boldly toward the security station.

As the guard looked his way, Dean improvised, "Hey there. I was just goin' for a swim and I guess I got lost. Could you tell me where…" He reached the desk and moved fast. Dean grabbed the guard by his shirt and yanked him upward, holding the sharp end of the chisel against his throat. "You even _think_ about touchin' that alarm and I'm gonna slice you up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Let me see your hands."

The guard paled, his eyes wide with fear. He raised his hands out to his sides. "Please, I have a family…"

"Do exactly what I tell you and you'll see 'em again," Dean promised. "Are you armed?"

"Y-yes."

Dean grabbed the guard's head and smashed him down against the desk. He fell, bonelessly. Dean vaulted over the desk and felt the man's neck for a pulse. It was strong and regular: he would be fine. Then he searched him for his gun. It was a .22, not a gun Dean would have chosen (shooting something is supposed to stop it. A .22. was a freaking bee-sting to most of the things Dean hunted), but he took it anyway. Then he headed for the exit, fast.

The staff parking lot was right there, just as Sammy said. Deal looked around. He spotted the red Mustang that Sam said was his. _I know you'll have to steal a car, but if you take mine I won't be able to meet you later. _Sam suggested that if Dean wanted Sam to stay out of it from then on, he should take the Mustang: Sam would get the message. So Dean looked around for an older car, something less likely to be alarmed and easier to hotwire, and took that instead.

***

Dean ditched the car in a clump of bushes about a mile out of Willow Creek. He had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark and the roads were quiet. He walked from there across the fields, back to the cabin where he'd lived with his father.

He and John came to Willow Creek to investigate the death of another hunter. Ellie's journal was all they had to guide them and, unlike John, she didn't exactly make detailed notes. All they knew was _something_ worth hunting was in Willow Creek, or somewhere nearby. The research was slow going. Dean had been looking into a couple of disappearances in a neighbouring town (turned out to be a bust) and was on his way back when he met Rachel's spirit on the bridge. The night John died.

The cabin door was sealed with that awful yellow tape cops use. Dean tore the tape away from the cabin door. It was unlocked.

Dean walked through this door that night…

_the weight of a weapon in his hand_

and his dad had been waiting for him…

_lying in wait_

No. That made no sense. Dad wouldn't hurt him!

Inside, the cabin looked like the set of a horror movie. John's papers were scattered over the coffee table and Dean could see blood streaked across them. The shape of a man's body was outlined in tape on the floor, behind the couch. A large stain of blood had soaked into the wooden floor around the tape. Dean swallowed. He steeled himself to get closer. He needed to know what John had

_stood up as Dean approached, his eyes taking in the machete Dean carried. Lips moved, saying something but Dean didn't hear. John's eyes glittered silver_

Dean knelt beside the table. The first thing he saw was a newspaper clipping with a photograph of Sam's wife, and Rachel. The headline read _MISSING RACHEL GREY FOUND DEAD_. Dean picked up the clipping and found another hidden beneath it._SERIAL KILLER RYAN BIZZARE SUICIDE_. Beneath the headline was a photograph of a man in his 50's with dark hair and strangely pale eyes. Except for the eyes, he looked like average-Joe-who-owns-the-local-store. Beneath the photograph were two words written in John's hurried scrawl:

_suicide = Murder?_

Beside this was a bloodstained page torn from John's journal. Dean lifted the page, the writing still visible beneath the blood.

_Nya Daris – drowning – Apr '12_

_Lucy Enfield – fall – Nov '12_

_Alexandra Mattson – car accident – Apr '13 (survived)_

…and there was more. They were all female names, all apparent accidents or suicides.

John could always make these connections more readily than Dean. A series of seemingly unconnected events and John would link them. However tenuous or far-fetched his links appeared to be, he was rarely, if ever wrong. Dean remembered asking him once if he were psychic; John laughed and told him he wouldn't admit it if he were, but Dean shouldn't mistake experience for psychic ability. Dean honestly wasn't sure if there had been a confession in there, or not.

Now Dean stared down at the remnants of his father's work and knew there were details missing. Some pieces of this puzzle died with John. Dean wasn't up to it. He didn't know how to make sense of all this.

He didn't understand why his father was dead.

It hit him suddenly: a breath-stealing, gut-wrenching realisation that John was gone. He would never again clasp Dean's shoulder in silent approval after a kill. He would never again criticise Dean for failing to clean a weapon or pour out scornful words to hide his fear when Dean got hurt. He was gone.

Dean laid John's papers back on the table and rose to his feet slowly. He remembered walking through here, the machete still in his hand…John tried to stop him…his eyes were weird, like silver…

He was possessed!

_machete handle slippery with blood, blade slicing into John's flesh_

No! God, no! Even if John were possessed, even if he were dangerous, Dean would have found another way.

_face covered with blood, eyes open as he struggled to rise, aiming a gun_

Bile rose in Dean's throat and he fell to his knees, retching. _No, it wasn't me! I didn't! I couldn't!_

But he remembered it, Dean realised as he wiped his mouth weakly. He remembered swinging the machete. He remembered striking the death blow.

What he didn't remember was feeling _anything_ while he did it. That made no sense. Dean knew he was capable of killing but he didn't kill coldly. He killed in anger, in fear, in hate…but never as this cold, detached thing.

_Not alone._

He tried to stand. His legs felt weak and shaky and he grabbed onto the wall to steady himself. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in an old, cracked mirror on the wall. The fresh scars stood out starkly on his cheeks and forehead.

_his own blood-spattered face in the mirror, eyes wild_

_flames bursting around him_

_screaming out his rage and grief_

Fuck.

***

The first thing Sam saw when he woke himself from the dream, was Jessica. She was sitting beside the bed, waiting patiently for him to wake. But Jess never came to him while he was working. Sam sat up groggily. "Jess?"

"Sam," she said, very seriously, "what have you done?"

Sam knew exactly what he'd done, but he frowned as if confused. "What do you mean?"

Jess looked stern. "Dean Winchester escaped from the Institute last night."

"What?!" Sam hoped he sounded convincingly surprised, because what he was thinking was _Well, done, brother!_ "How?" he asked.

"You tell me." Jessica's blue eyes narrowed. "What did you do, Sam?"

Sam reached for his glass of water and drank. He swung his legs over the side of his working bed. He looked closely at Jessica; she seemed tired, perhaps stressed.

"Jess, what are you accusing me of doing? Last I heard, Winchester was under sedation and restrained in a maximum security cell. What _could_ I have done?"

"I know you're more powerful than you let people know, Sam. Even me."

Time for truth; Jess knew him well enough to read a lie. Sam nodded. "Yes, that's true. But my power is in dreams, Jess. I could have gone into his dream to help him escape and he'd have woken up still tied to a bed."

"Why are you lying to me, Sam?"

Shit. Sam held out a hand to Jessica. She stood and took the offered hand and he pulled her close to him, sliding his arms around her waist and kissing her. "Jess, say I _did_ do what you think I did. I'd be lying to protect you, not to hurt you."

She touched the tip of his nose. "Protect me from what?"

"Hypothetically, maybe from having to decide whether to report me…or to whom."

Her eyes went wide. "Do you really believe I'd do that?"

She seemed genuinely shocked. Sam kissed her again, tucking a lock of her hair back behind her ear. "I believe you're a committed professional and an ethical person. _If_ I'd done something like help a prisoner escape, I think you would feel an obligation to consider turning me in."

Jessica drew back, her expression serious. "You should have been a lawyer."

Sam mock-shuddered. "Not me! I like helping people, not conning them."

"I'm your wife, Sam. Dean Winchester, whatever else he is, is your brother. Has it occurred to you that makes him my family, too?"

Truthfully, that thought hadn't occurred to Sam. He'd been thinking only of what seeing Dean again meant to _him_. "You don't even know him," Sam pointed out.

"I know _you_, Sam Grey. Tell me the truth. I won't report you."

Sam was still holding her hand. He stood up, letting her go. "I showed him a way out," Sam confessed and it _was_ a confession. He trusted Jess, but if she did report that he'd used his psychic ability to help Dean escape, then Sam would be legally responsible for anything Dean did. If he hurt someone… But Jess wouldn't tell anyone. One thing about Jessica: she was always honest. If she intended to report him she'd have said so, straight up.

"Why?" she asked simply.

"Jess, I need to keep that to myself. Please." Sam couldn't tell her Dean had seen Rachel. He could _not_ tell her their baby girl was a restless spirit haunting the road to Willow Creek. He certainly couldn't tell her what Dean was going to do to remedy that.

Jess bit her lip. "Sam…"

"You have to trust me, baby."

She nodded, but the gesture was reluctant, uncertain. "What do you plan to do next?" she asked.

"Write up my night report. Go home."

"And?" she pressed.

Sam swallowed. "We agreed on a rendezvous. I'm going to help Dean remember what happened – if he still needs help – and in return, he'll stop the thing that attacked Chloe."

When he mentioned Chloe's name Jessica's expression changed. "Sam, I know Chloe's case means a lot to you, but the police are looking for Winchester. If they find you with him, it won't matter that I won't report what you've done. They'll know you had something to do with it."

"I know," Sam admitted. He was thinking fast. Jessica wouldn't be the only one to suspect him. Jess suspected because she knew Dean was his brother; others would suspect Sam simply because he was a psychic and psychics weren't trusted. He could come up with some sort of a cover story but… Sam went to Jess, taking her into his arms. "Listen, I don't know exactly what's going to happen today. Don't cover for me, sweetheart. If I'm more than an hour late for work, and I haven't called, then do all the things you'd normally do if I went missing. You understand?"

"Well, yes, but – "

"I'll be fine, Jess. I promise."

"There's more, isn't there?" Jess looked scared now. "There's something you're not telling me."

Sam kissed her again. "Trust me."

"I do. But I'm not sure I trust _him_ with your life."

***

Sam drew up outside the ramshackle cabin. He sat in his Mustang for a moment, looking up at the cabin with its yellow tape, cracked windows and tattered curtains. It barely looked liveable. He remembered his childhood with his dad and Dean. They'd never been rich, but he didn't recall living in this sort of poverty. What kind of life was this?

He climbed out of the car, locked it automatically and pocketed the keys. He walked up to the cabin and found the door unlocked, the yellow tape flapping in the breeze. He pushed the door open and walked inside.

"Dean!" he called. "Dean, it's Sam." Dean had told him there was a place he could hide inside the cabin and even if the cops searched the place they wouldn't find him. He'd also told Sam that if something went wrong and he showed up here with cops in tow, Sam should call out that he was alone. That lie would be Dean's signal to stay hidden.

Codes and signals; Sam had forgotten that about Dean.

The main room of the cabin was the scene of the murder. The cops must be holding the scene because no one had made any attempt to clean up. Blood streaked the floor and walls. Sam's father's blood.

He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Sam had spent fifteen years believing his father abandoned him to The Psi Project. Sam believed Dean's version of events now – that John didn't give up until he was told Sam was dead – but it wasn't easy to give up so many years of resentment. Sam no longer thought of John Winchester as his father. Dean was his brother. Dean, he loved. John was just a name…no, he was more than that, but Sam didn't know how much more.

He was saved from thinking too hard about that by Dean's appearance. Dean stood in the doorway to the bedroom. He'd changed his clothing: blue jeans, a black t-shirt, red and blue plaid shirt, hiking boots. There was a gun in his belt. It suited him much more than the grey clothing of the Institute. But his face was still pale and drawn, the healing cuts plainly visible and his expression was unhappy. He was also wearing an improvised sling on one arm.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam forced a smile. "Dean. What happened to your arm?"

"It's nothing. Dude, we need to talk." Dean walked back into the bedroom.

Sam followed him. He'd been right: this was the bedroom. There was one king-sized bed, and an old couch. The couch didn't look comfortable for sleeping on. The room itself was untouched by the horror in the next room, and Sam understood why Dean preferred to talk in here. Yet in another way, this was worse. The very normality of the room spoke of a life, a family that had been destroyed.

"Is it safe for us to talk?" Sam asked.

Dean sat down on the end of the bed. "Cops searched the place already. This window faces the trees so no one can see us from the road. I think it's safe." Dean looked up at Sam. "Here's what I know. Your daughter died about four years ago, right?"

Four years, three months and sixteen days. "Yes," Sam answered. He took a seat on the couch.

"Since then, five people in this area have died in unusual circumstances. They were all young girls, older than Rachel but still kids. A friend of mine, Ellie Fox, thought it was worth checking out. She came here a few months ago and she ran her car off the bridge in the same place I did. Her car rolled into the creek and she drowned. Me and Dad, we came to figure out what happened to her."

"Dean, are you really saying Rachel's spirit is killing people?"

"She killed Dad," Dean said bluntly.

"I don't believe that."

"I don't give a fuck what you believe! My dad is dead!" Dean shouted it, slamming his closed fist down onto the bed beside him. Almost at once, though, he quieted, taking a deep breath. "Sam, I need to figure this out and I can't do it unless you answer my questions."

Sam thought about arguing. He'd come here to help Dean remember, and in Sam's experience telling him the answers could interfere with that process. But somehow, in this setting, Dean was a different person. Someone you don't argue with. Sam shrugged. "What do you need to know?"

Dean nodded as if making a decision. "What's the significance of the white bridge? Why is Rachel's spirit there?"

It wasn't the question he expected. Sam closed his eyes. It hurt, so much, to remember. He cleared his throat to make sure his voice would stay even. "After Rachel was born, Jess reduced her hours at the Institute so she could take care of the baby. Every morning, if the weather was fine, she would drive out as far as the bridge with Rachel, to wait for me to come home. When Rachel learned to talk she…she called it 'Daddy's bridge'."

Something Sam couldn't read flashed across Dean's face then. "Crap, Sammy, you could have mentioned that earlier!" He shook his head. "She's waitin' for you, dude. Maybe she recognised me as the same blood…I don't know, but it's possible." He looked at Sam. "I know this ain't easy, Sam, but you've got to tell me what happened to her. Everything."

"Okay," Sam said, but his voice came in a mere whisper. "Okay," he said again. He rose and walked over to the window. "You haven't seen our house. It's about five miles upriver from Willow Creek. The house backs onto the river. The night we…lost…Rachel, Jess and I were having a little party. You know, a few friends, a few drinks. Rachel just vanished. She was supposed to be asleep in her bed. We don't know if she woke up and came looking for us or if Ryan took her from the nursery. She was just gone."

"When did you realise she was missing?" Dean asked.

It wasn't Dean's fault that Sam had answered that question a million times before, to a hundred different cops, all of whom seemed to want to make it his fault that Rachel was missing.

Sam answered the way he'd answered every other time. "Jess looked in on her every hour. She was in her bed at ten. When Jess checked on her at eleven, she was gone." The words didn't come close to describing it. Sam had been enjoying himself; he was a little drunk, laughing and joking with friends when Jess came running from the house, calling Rachel's name frantically. Sam held her, trying to calm her down even as fear filtered through the alcoholic haze in his own brain. They searched. All of them searched, the house, the grounds, even silly places where they knew she wouldn't be. Sam was sure Rachel hadn't been near the river because that's where he had been, and he – or someone – would have seen her. He searched there anyway, up to his chest in the cold water, fear turning to panic in the darkness. It was Jess who called the police.

Sam took a breath and was relieved to find he wasn't shaking. He didn't want to relive the next part but Dean needed to know.

"She was missing for a week," he went on reluctantly, "but she wasn't missing to me. I couldn't find her in reality, but I found her in my dreams, in hers. She couldn't tell me where she was, but I knew she was…being hurt."

Rachel clung to Sam in her dreams, crying. He cuddled her close, telling her it would be okay, that her daddy loved her. He tried, gently, to probe her memories, to find something, _anything_, that would help him find her. But Rachel was five years old. Her perceptions were those of a child and she couldn't put the clues together the way a grown-up mind would. She showed Sam her captor, but she showed him a deformed monster, huge and threatening. He saw a woman, chained, in flames. He saw his baby girl screaming in pain.

He thought that was the worst of it, but he was wrong.

It was worse when it stopped. When Sam couldn't find her any more.

Sam knew she was dead. Two days before her body was found in the river, he knew.

"What they pulled out of the river was unrecognisable, Dean. I couldn't identify my own daughter. We had to wait for DNA tests."

"Oh, god, Sammy."

The raw pain in Dean's voice made Sam turn around and look at him. Dean had said he didn't know how it felt to lose a child, but there was something in his voice, in his eyes. Empathy.

It helped.

Sam swallowed hard. "What you need to know…Rachel was found in the river, about a mile downstream from the white bridge. She didn't drown. Cause of death was blood loss."

"Shit. That's horrible."

"Yeah, it was." Sam raised his hand to the window frame, gripping it tightly. Splinters dug into his skin. He stared at the trees outside, their leaves moving in the breeze. He fixated on that small movement, trying to clear his head…and his heart.

***

Dean moved up to Sam's side, standing close but not touching him. Speaking as gently as he could, he asked, "You said Rachel showed you a woman in flames. Sam, what does that mean to you? Other than mom, I mean."

Sam leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the glass. "It's the _Anima Sola_," he said.

"_Anima Sola_?"

"It's a religious image, popular in South America. A woman chained in purgatory, praying as she burns. Ryan, the man who murdered Rachel; he had the _Anima Sola_ tattooed across his chest."

That made the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place for the first time. Dean felt sick with the horror of it. What that poor child must have suffered. That image – a woman burning – the last thing she saw. Her restless spirit was obsessed with the image, it became a part of her. And she was still waiting for her daddy to come and save her.

The man who killed Rachel wore an Anima Sola tattoo. Dean had seen his face in the news clipping John left for him. But he'd seen the tattoo somewhere else, too. The spirit that raped Chloe. Dean saw it only for a second but he did remember tattoos.

But that meant…

Oh, god. Oh, no, Sam…

"Sam, what did you do?" Dean asked apprehensively.

Sam didn't move. "I buried my daughter."

Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder and spun him around, slamming him up against the wall beside the window. "You know that ain't what I mean. Ryan was caught but he never saw a trial. The article said he killed himself. _What did you do, Sam?_"

"What would you have done?" Sam asked, through clenched teeth.

That answered the question. Dean understood what Sam needed to hear. "Me? I would have blown the fucker away." He pushed at Sam's chest, holding him against the wall. "I'm not fucking stupid, Sam. I know you killed him. I need to know _how_."

"Alright! Let me go."

Dean stepped back, releasing Sam.

"Ryan was diagnosed schizophrenic. Because of that, he was committed to the Woodward Institute for an evaluation to determine if he could stand trial. Dean, I never planned to do it. I wanted the state to kill him for me. But when I touched his mind I knew it was never gonna happen."

"Sam, I don't care why. I'm on your side, okay, dude? I just need to know what you did."

Sam nodded. He raised a hand to his forehead, let it fall. "You know that story about the man who dreams he's about to be executed? He's marched up to the guillotine and just as the blade falls in his dream someone touches the back of his neck to wake him up and he dies of fright."

"I've heard that one, yeah." It's a dumb urban legend. If the guy died, how could anyone know what he'd been dreaming?

"It's bullshit," Sam said. "You can't kill a person with a dream. But you can drive them to it." Sam met Dean's eyes and his look was fierce. "I put him through everything he'd done to my baby. I yanked his worst fears out of his head and made him watch. In the end, I figured out how to keep it going when he was technically awake. He clawed his own eyes out and when that didn't help he smashed his own head against the wall until he died." Sam's look dared Dean to find fault with him for that.

Dean got it. He did. But revenge has a price, and you've got to make sure it won't be someone else paying it. Sam fucked up. "I don't blame you for wanting revenge, Sam. But don't you see what you've done?"

Sam stared at him.

"You just said this guy was schizo. That means he was probably an untrained psychic. And murder – no matter how much he deserved what you did, Sam – that's how vengeful spirits are made. As a spirit this guy is pissed off and powerful and _you taught him how to torture other people_." Dean dug the obits out of his pocket and laid them on the bed one by one. "Look at these, Sam. Every one of these girls was connected to the Institute. Connected to _you_. Ryan's spirit hurt them because of what you did. That poor girl in the hospital… Jesus, Sammy, if you weren't my brother…" He grabbed Sam by the scruff of his neck, forcing him to look at the bloodstained newspaper. "Look, Sam. Look."

Sam picked up one of the obituaries. "You're saying this is my fault." He wrenched away from Dean, but staggered.

Dean guided him to the couch as Sam's strength gave out.

"No… Oh, god, Dean, I didn't know…" He looked up at Dean, his eyes full of horror. "Dad? Dad died because of me?"

And that went right to the heart of it, didn't it?

Dean turned away. He even half-reached for the gun.

But he was John Winchester's son. Revenge was in his blood, but there was one thing stronger than revenge. Blood. Family.

_Hurtin' Sam won't bring John back. Nothing will._

Dean did his best to keep his expression neutral and turned back to face his brother. "Sam, it's too late for that. All we can do now is clean up the mess. Tell me you know where this son of a bitch is buried."

Sam nodded mutely.

"Where?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Hope Hill Cemetary, near the west road."

"Good. Better call in sick or something. You're comin' with me tonight."

***

Sam tripped over a gravestone in the darkness. He swore under his breath, dropping the heavy bag he was carrying for Dean.

Dean grabbed his arm and hauled him up. "Clumsy, Sammy."

"I work in my sleep. What do you expect?"

He had a point. Dean grinned. "Much further?"

"No. It's right here." Sam pointed out a plain headstone marked with a single name. Karl Ryan.

Dean was carrying a pair of shovels. He swung them down from his shoulder and offered one to Sam.

Sam didn't take it. "You seriously want me to dig up a grave?"

Dean remembered Sam doing this at ten years old, Dad standing over them both. "When did you get so squeamish?" he asked. "We used to do this all the time."

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean thought he saw a quick smile. "That was a long time ago, man. And the way I remember it, I did more holding the flashlight than digging."

"Fine. Flashlight's in the bag you're carrying." Dean stepped over the grave, set the shovel into the grass and broke ground. "Just keep it pointed down, dude. We don't want to get caught."

"Understatement," Sam said. He laid the bag beside the headstone and started digging.

It was, in the end, pretty routine. Digging up a grave would have taken Dean all night with his injured arm, but with Sam's help it went quickly. It was still Dean who reached the coffin first. It was a cheap box, probably paid for by the state, and it crumbled when Dean's shovel hit it.

"Gotcha," he announced. "Sam, climb up and get me the salt." He waited for Sam to scramble out of the grave, then he cleared away the rest of the dirt and smashed the cheap coffin open.

Sam handed Dean the bag of salt. "I'll…uh…I'll hold the flashlight," he said uneasily.

Dean chuckled. "You really are getting squeamish in your old age. I don't need the light, dude, just the gasoline." He poured salt over the corpse, tossed the bag back up there, and reached up to take the gasoline can. He tossed in plenty of gasoline. He threw the shovel onto the grass then started to haul himself out of the big hole in the ground.

Sam helped him. Dean let him help, though he didn't need it.

Standing on the edge of the grave, he struck a match and dropped it. "Rest in peace," he said. He watched with satisfaction as the gasoline caught light with a soft _whoosh_.

Sam clicked the flashlight off. "So…that's it? His spirit is gone, now?"

"Should be," Dean confirmed, pocketing the matches. "We wait until there's nothing but ashes, then we fill it in. No more psycho ghost."

The flames lit Sam's face from below. He didn't look happy. "What about Rachel?" he asked quietly.

Dean thought about making Sam dig up his daughter's grave. No. No matter what, he couldn't go there. "Honestly, Sammy?"

Sam looked like he was getting ready for a punch in the gut. "Yeah. Honestly."

"This is the only sure way, Sam. But there's something else we can try, if you're up for it."

"What do you want to try?"

Dean met his brother's eyes. "When was the last time you crossed the white bridge?"

Sam stared at him for a moment. "Oh, no, Dean. No. I don't think I can do that."

Dean shrugged. "You don't have to. Where's she buried?"

"I'm not letting you…"

Dean interrupted harshly. "Those are the choices, dude. We dig her up, or we try the other way."

"Dean…" Sam began, clearly unhappy. "What's this other way? You want me to drive over the bridge?"

"I think Rachel's waiting for her daddy. If you meet her there, maybe she'll be able to rest."

"Maybe means you're not sure."

Dean looked down into the burning coffin. "What her spirit is doing is dangerous, but it's not malicious. She picked on me because I'm the closest she'd found to you: blood calls to blood. But Sam, she's _not_ the little girl you knew. She's a spirit and they don't see things the way people do. She's been begging for my help, on the bridge, inside the Institute. Hurting me was the only way she could reach me."

"And Dad? How was she involved in that?"

"Dad was possessed by Ryan. Rachel was in me…I didn't realise it until it was too late. I don't think she even saw Dad. She saw the man who tortured her but this time instead of being a helpless kid she had," Dean thumped his chest, "this adult, strong body. So she fought back. My memory is still fuzzy, Sam, but that's how I think it went down."

The flames below were dying to a smoulder. Dean thought about doing this to Rachel. Part of him wanted to waste the bitch for what she'd used him to do. But there was Sam. Dean could give up revenge for his sake…but _only_ if Sam would finish this tonight.

He picked up the shovel and started to fill in the grave.

***

Sam slowed the Mustang as they turned onto the west road to Willow Creek. He glanced across to Dean. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? I mean, every time you've run into her spirit…"

"I'll stay in the car," Dean said. "If this is gonna work, you need to meet her alone."

Sam swallowed. He couldn't quite believe they were really talking about this. "What do I have to do?"

"You said earlier that Jessica and Rachel used to wait for you on the bridge. Just do exactly what you used to do when you saw them there. If I'm right, Rachel will be waiting. You won't need instructions, Sam. You're her dad, right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He was Rachel's dad, but Dean was the one who said spirits don't see things the way people do. Sam was scared. Scared of seeing her again, scared of _not_ seeing her. Scared she would hate him for failing to save her; scared she might forgive him and he'd die of guilt. There was no forgiveness for this. He was her father; he should have protected her.

The white bridge was visible ahead. Sam turned into the side of the road where Jess used to park her little car. When the weather was good Jess would leave the car here and walk to the bridge with Rachel. They would play "Pooh sticks" or watch the ducks on the river while they waited for him.

"Go ahead, Sam," Dean said quietly.

Sam took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. He was vaguely aware of Dean reaching for the bag on the back seat, but he paid no attention. His mouth was dry, his legs a little unsteady as he walked. His eyes were fixed on the bridge. He saw nothing there. No one.

There was a waxing moon in the sky above the bridge, illuminating the whitewashed wood. Sam could hear the water flowing beneath and the wind hushing through the trees. Jessica loved this place. Before Rachel was born they used to come here together and take long walks beside the creek. They didn't come here any longer.

Sam blinked back the tears that threatened and saw through blurred vision the shimmering figure of a child appear in the road ahead. Rachel, dressed in her white nightgown, looking scared and forlorn. It hurt his heart to see her.

"Rachel," he whispered into the night. "Oh, baby."

There were no clouds in the sky but rain was falling around Rachel – and only around her. Sam kept moving toward her.

He thought about Jessica. Sitting with her on the couch at home, listening to her laugh. Laying his large hand on her stomach to feel the baby kick. Jess waking him in the early hours of the morning: "Sam, I think you need to drive me to the hospital now." Sam remembered the first time he held Rachel in his arms, this beautiful, tiny person and he'd wondered if he was ready for this, if he could ever be prepared for the responsibility of raising a child. He remembered so much: her first words, her first steps. The time he'd been changing her diaper and somehow dropped the dirty one on the floor: he'd muttered _shit_ under his breath and Rachel repeated the word in her childish voice and Sam wondered what the hell Jess would say when she heard _that_. Sam mostly missed the being woken up at all hours by a hungry or wet baby, because he worked nights, but he'd done his share of the four o'clock feedings, of rocking her to sleep when she was teething and of washing spit-up out of his best shirts. He remembered bandaging her knees when she fell down (blue and red elastoplast with cartoon animals on them) and he remembered teaching her to swim (bright orange water wings and the blue, blue ocean of California).

Sam fell to his knees in the road. The memories couldn't distract him any longer. She was right here, his baby, and he couldn't avoid facing his failure. She should be nine years old now, wearing pigtails and burning cookies with Jess. He should have protected her.

"Rachel," he said again. He reached out to her, expecting his hand to go right through her – she was a ghost, after all – but his fingers seemed to touch her cold skin. She flinched as he touched her. The side of her face was bruised and bloody and she was crying, silently. "Rachel," he said softly, "Daddy's here."

It wasn't going to work. Whatever Dean thought was going to happen here…maybe he was wrong.

That was when Rachel looked at Sam.

Her eyes met his and she smiled. That smile, so like his own, melted his heart. Without thinking, he opened his arms to her.

"Daddy!" she cried, and ran into his arms.

"Baby," he whispered against her rain-wet hair. "You're safe now, I promise. Baby, I'm here." Hot tears filled his eyes, poured down his face.

"Daddy, you're crying," she said, touching his cheek curiously. Her tiny fingers were shivering in the cold.

"I know, sweetheart."

"Why?"

_Why._ She could drive him crazy with that question, but not on this night. He simply answered it. "Because I love you, darling."

She cuddled close to him, tucking her head beneath his chin. Sam held her close, willing to hold her forever if he had to. Anything to keep her safe and warm.

And she was gone.

Sam caught his breath. "Rachel?" he called. "Rachel?" He looked for her. Couldn't lose her again.

"She's gone, Sammy." Dean was there, holding a shotgun for heaven's sake!

Shakily, Sam rose to his feet. "She's gone?" he repeated.

"You did it, Sam. She's at rest now."

Whatever strength Sam had left in his body deserted him. Dean caught him as he fell. "Okay, dude. Let's get you home."

***

Dean bundled Sam into the passenger seat of the Mustang and took his keys. Sam didn't say a word as Dean drove him home. Lucky Dean knew where he lived.

Dean pulled into the driveway of Sam's house. Nice place. It looked like the kind of place you buy with children in mind. There were lights on inside the house.

Sam hadn't moved.

"Sammy?" Dean tried.

"No one calls me that," Sam said dully.

"Dad did."

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

Sam shook his head, looking up at the house. "It was all my fault, wasn't it? Everyone Ryan's spirit hurt or killed. He was after revenge."

There wasn't really a way to soften this one. Dean nodded.

"He killed Dad. Because of me."

"It wasn't your fault, Sam," Dean said. But he was lying. Sam committed murder, and in doing so he taught a vengeful spirit how to move from mind to mind, how to fuck with people's dreams. No matter how justified Sam might have been…yeah, it was his fault. Another hunter might even kill him for it.

The door of the house opened and Dean saw Jessica's silhouette against the light. He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. "C'mon Sam." He hauled Sam out of the car and half-carried him up toward the house.

Jess ran down the steps toward them. "What happened?" she demanded. She moved to Sam's other side but her question was addressed to Dean.

"That's for Sam to tell you," Dean evaded. "He's fine, he just needs rest." He looked at her thoughtfully. "Is there some way he can rest properly? Sleep and not dream, I mean."

She looked surprised. "Yes, I can give him something. Let's get him inside."

"I can walk!" Sam protested, pushing Dean away. He kept his arm around Jessica's shoulders, though.

Dean slipped the Mustang's keys into Sam's pocket. "Fine. See ya, Sammy." He turned to go.

"Wait!" Jessica called.

Dean turned back. Sam glanced at him, swaying on his feet, then headed unsteadily into the house.

"You know the cops are looking for you?" Jess said, apparently concerned for him.

Dean smiled bitterly. "Sure. It ain't the first time. I've got a place I can lie low once I get my car back." He walked up to her. "Call 'em, if you need to. I won't hold it against you." He met her worried eyes. "Sam's okay. Really. He's just had a tough night."

"Thank you." Jessica smiled briefly. "I…er…I have no idea what you've done, but…thanks."

Dean grinned. "Tell Sammy I'll call when I can." He started walking and did not look back again. It was about ten miles to town from here: he could hike that distance before dawn. He would find out where his car was being held and steal it back, then he'd get the hell out of this state.

***

Sam tapped softly on the door and through the pane of glass he saw Chloe look up at the sound. She looked much better: her glossy long hair was washed and combed, and she wore a cotton blouse with a floral print over her hospital-issue t-shirt and pants. She was sitting on the bed with one leg tucked underneath her. Her feet were bare. She met his eyes through the glass and smiled uncertainly.

Sam opened the door and walked through, leaving it ajar behind him. "Hi, Chloe," he said nervously.

"Doctor…" she began.

"Sam. Please, call me Sam. How are you feeling?"

Her tentative smile vanished; perhaps his question reminded her of unpleasant things. "I think I'm better…Sam."

"May I sit down?"

"Of course." She shifted, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking down so her hair fell across her face.

Sam lifted her only chair and moved it so he could sit facing her. "Chloe, do you know who I am?"

She giggled, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. "I'm crazy, but I can remember. You're the one who comes to my dreams."

Sam nodded. He should have said something like _you're not crazy_, he thought, but while _crazy_ wasn't a helpful term, Chloe was some way from being sane.

He sat down. "I tried my best to help you, Chloe, but…I understand now that my best was pretty lousy. You tried to show me what was happening to you and I…I didn't listen. I came to tell you I'm very sorry and…I won't trouble you again." The speech wasn't rehearsed but Sam thought it sounded that way. Hell.

Chloe's dark eyes gazed at him. She was chewing on her index finger. Sam felt strange seeing her as an adult. Chloe was twenty six years old but her gestures were much younger and her dream-self was a little girl. In her own head, she was forever five years old and innocent, the person her abusive father had shattered.

Chloe was silent, just watching him.

Sam understood. He rose from the chair. "Okay. Well, I'm gonna go…"

"Don't go," she said quietly. Chloe jumped down from the bed, half-stumbled and took a step – just one – toward Sam.

He was halfway to the door. He turned back to Chloe and waited.

She looked wary and nervous. "I…I like you in my dreams. You were…" She looked down again.

Sam swallowed. "I was what, Chloe?" he asked gently.

She gazed down at her toes. "My angel," she whispered.

_Oh, god...Way to make me feel even worse._ "Oh, Chloe," Sam heard himself say. He took a step toward her and she ran into his arms. It was unprofessional, but Sam held her close for a moment, both comforting and taking comfort he knew he didn't deserve. He hugged her only for a moment, then he released her carefully.

"You _want_ me to keep visiting your dreams, Chloe?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

Sam smiled. "Okay. Then I will, as long as you need me."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled, a sunny, bright smile. It made Sam feel even worse. He was digging himself a hole here. As much as he saw her as the child she was inside, her body was that of a mature woman. She was behaving as if she had a crush; and that would be nothing but trouble.

But Sam was responsible for everything she'd been suffering for three years. He'd convinced himself he should take himself off her case, but he saw now that his motivation was partly selfish: he wanted to be off the hook. No. If his apology to her meant anything, he had to _take_ responsibility. He had to help her, if he could.

"Thank you," Chloe whispered.

Ryan's spirit would not torment her any longer; Dean had promised him Ryan couldn't come back. Chloe had a long road to recovery ahead, but she could heal.

Sam was going to make sure of it.

***

Dean stood on the rock promontory, the Arizona sun warm on his face, a light breeze stirring his shirt and blowing dust around his sneakers. Below him stretched the magnificent landscape of the Grand Canyon. It was huge, humbling…and even in his dream, it seemed very real. Dean felt as if he were actually standing there: he could taste the acrid tang to the air, hear the skittering of some small creature near his feet, he could feel the gritty sand under his fingernails.

"You've really never been here?" Sam said. He was sitting on the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling over the precipice.

"What can I say? The one time Dad and I heard of anything weird happening around here, a local hunter took care of it before we even hit the road."

Sam looked up at him, shielding his eyes against the sun. "That's your life? One hunt after another, never a real vacation?"

Dean shook his head, not willing to accept Sam's pity. "There's always some evil son of a bitch needs wastin'." He sat down beside Sam. "You know, dude, I never asked you: why'd you change your name?"

Sam smiled. "Oh, that. The Psi Project advised me to do it."

"Why?" Dean frowned.

"Because my father was a hunter. They said my life would be in danger if he ever found me. I _know_ that's not true," Sam added quickly as Dean started to protest, "but I was eighteen years old, and I was alone. I thought you and Dad wanted nothing to do with me and I trusted my Project mentor."

"That's bullshit, Sammy!"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I wish…I wish I could tell Dad I'm sorry, too."

Dean turned away. He didn't want to talk about John. He was never getting over that. It was three weeks since that night and Dean knew he would never have a clear memory of what happened, but there must have been something he could have done, some way he could have fought Rachel's possession. She was a freaking ghost, not a demon.

Sam touched his shoulder; a gesture so like their father Dean pulled away.

"Dean…"

Dean looked down into the Canyon. "Yeah?"

"Something you said about the spirit of Karl Ryan…you implied that if a person has some psychic ability in life, their ghost is…I don't know…more than a regular spirit."

Dean nodded, glad for the change of subject. "Yeah, they tend to be more powerful in death. More dangerous. Dude, you _saw_ that."

"Then you should know…Rachel was like me. Psychic, I mean, and she was powerful, even as a toddler. I don't think there was anything you could have done to stop her that night."

_What are you readin' my mind now?_ Fuck, of course he was. This was a dream, and Sam was a dreamwalker. Dean picked up a pebble from the ground beside him and threw it, hard, into the Canyon below them.

Sam said nothing more.

Dean threw another pebble. "What did you tell Jessica?" he asked finally.

Sam grimaced. "The truth, or, some of it. I told her about Ryan. What I did."

"How'd she take that?"

"Not well," Sam admitted. "Why do you think I'm dreaming the Grand Canyon with you instead of Bali with my wife?"

"Ouch."

"Yeah. We'll get through it, I think. I hope. I might lose my job, but I don't think I'm gonna lose Jess." He sighed, tossing a pebble of his own. "Dean, are _you_ okay? I mean…"

"I know what you mean," Dean interrupted before Sam could mention his dad again. The glitter was gone from the landscape of the dream. "I'm doin' okay," he lied.

"No, you're not. Maybe I can…hell, Dean, where _are_ you? Do you have friends with you, or…"

"Dude, quit it," Dean snapped. "I'm in Nebraska, stayin' out of sight until I know how much heat there is over my prison break. And I'm doin' okay."

"Alright. But, if you need anything…"

"Like what? Sammy, go back to your safe life and your pretty girl. Just stay in touch. But use the phone next time."

Sam laughed. "Tell me your number and I will."

Dean told him. "Don't think you can't call me this way, too, though. I like the Grand Canyon. How about a strip club next time? Lots of girls, lots of beer, maybe a pole or two…"

"Don't you ever stop?"

Dean got to his feet. "What's a dream without a little fantasy?"

Sam grinned. "Whatever you say, Dean. Whatever you say."

***

_But my dreams they aren't as empty  
As my conscience seems to be  
I have hours, only lonely  
My love is vengeance  
That's never free_

_ Limp Bizkit - _Behind Blue Eyes_  
(From the movie _Gothika_)_


End file.
